


apeiron

by arthurr



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Tarsus IV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-08-09 03:18:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7784593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthurr/pseuds/arthurr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The history of James T. Kirk and Spock, years later, puzzles everyone. Details are obscure, and much evidence is circumstantial. Spock does not answer personal questions, and those who know him are too loyal to do so either.<br/>However, despite all the ambiguity, everyone agrees that at two points in their lives, these two men saved the world.</p><p>Modern!AU loosely inspired by The X-Files.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Many historians have difficulty piecing together the interwoven lives of James Tiberius Kirk and S’chn T’gai Spock beyond superficial dates and figures. Aggravated by the reluctance to accept these two men as major actors in the events that inspired their fame until recent years, historians searched quite vigorously for more accurate records of their personal lives._

_Professor Spock, as he is now known, was quite easy. Born on the planet Vulcan in Terran year 1997 to a Vulcan diplomat and an accomplished Terran teacher thirty years after historic first contact with alien life, he struggled to find a place amongst his peers. Xenophobia, however silent, ruled his educational life until he was accepted into the Vulcan Science Academy. Record states in a scant paragraph — Vulcans often are quite brief — that he rejected the prestigious offer in favor of traveling to Earth where he then enrolled at UC Berkeley, the campus that would decades later become the first wing of Star Fleet Academy._

_James Kirk, however, was different. His birth in 2000, an anomaly unto itself, occurred somewhere on the Atlantic. The USS Kelvin, struck by a slew missiles from an unidentified vessel, carried Winona Kirk and George Kirk, the latter of which saved the large majority of the crew at the cost of his own life. It is difficult to overestimate how this would shape the life of James Kirk, born at sea to a mother who had just lost her husband, who would continue to serve in NATO — to varying extents — until her late retirement in 2042. George Samuel Kirk, James Kirk’s older brother, moved to Earth’s second interstellar colony, Exo III, where he married and raised a family after earning an internship at the research facility. He claimed the last time he saw or heard from his brother was 2015._

_Remaining Kirk artifacts, including the preserved Iowa farmhouse, suggest a difficult home life, characterized by a distinct lack of pictures apart from the ones from before James’s birth. A large collection of paperback books sits in the living room, covered in a layer of dust and quite a few liquor stains. Local records from the Riverside courthouse state that Winona did remarry to a Frank Huntington, a man who was remembered by many as “abrasive” and “uncouth”, but it can be assumed that they separated some time around 2017. There are no divorce papers, but there is a vehement restraining order._

_One thing remains starkly peculiar, however. A single photograph, captioned, “Boston, 2026,” of both Kirk and Professor Spock together in their youth turned toward each other under a stone archway at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, sits on the ancient fireplace. Once presumed to be uninhabited after Winona Kirk’s separation from Huntington, a newer addition to the decor of the Iowa home was unprecedented. This is one of the few reliable records of their_ unprofessional _intersection apart from handwritten letters, which span many decades, belonging to Professor Spock scavenged by tabloid reporters through less-than-legal means in 2080. Their facial expressions, some have concluded, suggest intense familiarity. Friendship. The softness in the face and the relaxed incline of the body exhibited by Professor Spock, unusual in Vulcans and certainly unusual in him, suggests something more than the professional relationship that was so public years and years ago._

_In any case, this upset the radio silence that followed James Kirk for what we can assume was the rest of his life after the defeat the militant Khan Noonien Singh._

— Alfsson, Anderson. _After 2027: A Biographical Investigation of James T. Kirk and Spock_. New York: Simon  & Schuster, 2120. Print.

 

* * *

 

Spock meets Nyota because she is his lab partner at UC Berkeley their freshman year. Her smiles rest easily on her face and, like the sharpness of her tongue, speak volumes about her intellectual prowess. He likes her honesty, her independence, the way her eyes set upon the world like she is the one who can reverse its orbit if she could only find the means to do it. She invokes something a little poetic.

They do their work in relative silence until one day she, in perfect Vulcan, asks if he could help her with a speech, perhaps over drinks at the local teahouse. Then things are different. 

Spock and Nyota have similar career goals, both in the government or academia, whichever suits them best given the long time between the present and when they will have to choose. They both have felt the sting of discrimination, Spock for his heritage and Nyota for the color of her skin. However, they both have known the good in others and the sight of societal progress that comes from it.

"You like being able to speak Vulcan to me, I know it," she teases, flipping her long hair over her shoulder. "You get a little kick out of watching other people feel uncomfortable. Perks of being the first alien race discovered, right?” 

He sips his tea, quirking a brow just enough for her to see his jest. "I do not know what you mean. I speak Vulcan with you because it is my mother tongue, and you require practice if you wish to later engage in governmental work. The discovery of Vulcan is quite irrelevant.”

Nyota smiles brightly, illuminating the teahouse with her joy. "I get it. You're humble. Vulcan. Logical. You surely can't feel a little something at being bilingual in a room full of people who used to view you as less."

"As I'm sure you, Nyota, do not feel a wave of justified pride when you continually impress every person in the classroom who used to see you as unworthy," Spock says quietly, his eyes searching hers.

She looks down and blushes prettily. The setting sun reflects reds and oranges upon her skin in conjunction with the cadet reds, and Spock thinks if he could only look past the veneer of flesh he would see her soul, a crimson stir of lion's blood and liquid steel.

"You're sweet. It's only a matter of time before the world snatches you away," she says, pressing her lips together in a contented smile.

"You and I both know that societal tolerance will come slowly. Vulcans are the first species to ever contact Earth, so it is logical that human acclimation to occupying the universe with multiple intelligent species would be slow," he reasons.

Nyota purses her lips in that frown she gives him whenever he says something particularly unsettling. "Spock, it's been sixty years since first contact. Rights have come a long way since then. Someone as smart as you deserves to be great."

He nods, unwilling to attempt to move the boulder that is her resolve, settling instead for acceptance.  He allows his expression to soften, just a bit, because she deserves to see a little of him.

 

* * *

 

Three months into his undergraduate career, Spock’s mother calls him. Her face on the screen is beautiful, warm, and tired. The Vulcan robes, a sandy beige, compliment her mahogany eyes and her greying hair. She looks almost regal.

“I needed to talk to someone who is not your father,” she begins. “I love him, but sometimes he isn’t as understanding as you.”

 “Yes, mother. What is it you wish to speak of?”

She wrings her hands. “That Earth colony, the second one, you know about it right? I mean, I talked your ear off about it at home, all the electronic translators I had to develop and send over, the communications errors to and from.”

Spock furrows his brows a fraction. “I do recall this colony. It has a residency of eight thousand, and is located in the Tarsus Star System.”

 “Ah, yes. Well, I can’t speak about this with your father. He’s a diplomat and all, but we can’t have Vulcan and Terran relations be scrambled by a might-be misunderstanding. I just… Something isn’t quite right,” she says. Her voice quavers a little, and Spock recognizes it as confusion. She looks somewhere offscreen, contemplative. “Many transmissions have been difficult to patch. Now, I know what you’re going to say, that this is only our second colony and missteps like this are to be expected, but listen. A colony of eight thousand and transmissions trickle down to a dozen a day? Sometimes less?”

 He is quiet for a moment. “Perhaps many colonists are busy with work. A newly established colony requires much maintenance, and it is not uncommon for people to pause communications when adjusting to a new environment.”

His mother groans. “No, it’s something else! I can feel it. Something is wrong. I just can’t figure it out yet. I can’t do anything about it myself. I’m under quite a bit of scrutiny as it is, and I can’t just be devoting my time to suspicions.” She brushes the hair out of her face. “I just… You’re well-versed in technology and coding. I need you to look into this for me. Maybe I’m missing a pattern, a blip in the ionic cloud, anything.”

He considers for a moment the consequences of hacking into the transmissions databases. The son of an ambassador is a high-profile figure. His status as the first half-human progeny in history elevates him even more. He is conspicuous in every way. And yet, with his mother on the screen, with her exhaustion and her love and her concern for the colony, he sighs.

 “It… is not logical to pursue this line of inquiry. But because you have asked it of me, I shall,” he concedes.

 She smiles, bright and easy. “Thank you, Spock. I don’t think I have to tell you this, but please don’t let your father know. He’d be pretty upset that we were looking into things that aren’t our business.”

 

* * *

 

 In the library, using a quite unauthorized VPN, Spock manages to get ahold of some of the most recent transmissions from Tarsus IV. A colony of eight thousand with residents speaking eight different languages, it is quite difficult to decipher a definitive pattern. So he employs Nyota.

 “I ask for your discretion in this matter. It is a… favor for my mother, and this matter is very important to her,” he whispers to her.

 She nods. Her hair, tied back neatly today, swings lightly with the motion. Her turtleneck is snug around her, and she looks neat and academic. “Let’s get to it. I’ll translate what I can.”

The first thirty messages are half from governmental personnel.

_**From** : Commander Mendez_

_**To** : State Department_

_November 27, 2016_

_La gente está bien. Nosotros tenemos que construir un hospital nuevo. Tenemos los suministros para este proyecto._

The other half are in the order of short, familial messages. Almost terse.

_**From** : Lawson, Sarah_

_**To** : Lawson, Jennifer_

_November 27, 2016_

_Hey, mom. I love you. Everything is good. Will update you soon._

Nyota shakes her head. “These all sound kind of the same. No one has anything bad to report, to the government or otherwise. The common thread here is that these messages are all syntactically simple. Not even minor divergences from a set pattern can be found.”

Spock agrees, “Humans are fickle creatures, and it is rare that eight thousand have very little criticism of their current situation.” 

“It _is_ a fledgling colony. But that isn’t necessarily evidence that something is wrong,” she reasons.

“Yes. It is difficult to draw many conclusions, but we have only observed thirty messages. Thirty messages with little substance, might I add.”

Nyota laughs. “That’s a pattern, too. I mean, if I was in space, I’d update my parents on the regular. How could you not? A different planet with its own ecology is difficult to come by.”

A new message pops up on Spock’s screen. One that is hidden under a layer of encryption evidenced by the slight distortion of the text. Subtle, but meant to be found. Spock quickly manages to unseal it.

_**From** : KELVIN_

_**To** : [unspecified addressed] Exo III_

_November 27, 2016_

_hello? any1 there?_

 

* * *

 

In Nyota’s room this time, they sit cross-legged on her bed, her laptop between them. She works out an alias to send transmissions through so as not to incur the suspicions of the authorities Earthside or on Tarsus. Spock’s mother, occupied by a series of conferences with Vulcan officials, is unable to answer Spock’s messages.

_**From** : Rand, Janice_

_**To** : KELVIN_

_Hello._

Spock locks it down with a layer of rudimentary code, and sends it off.

“This KELVIN, the content of his message is strange. It seems like it was sent to several destinations.” Nyota asks.

Spock considers for a moment. “The one we intercepted was on its way to the first Earth colony on Exo III. Several copies made their way to various other major sites. I assume very few, if any, caught the encryption.”

“Huh. Interesting. I’m guessing he’s a civilian, judging from the crude text. He’s a smart civilian, though. That level of encryption is pretty simple, but, really, how many people can encrypt in the first place? And he _knows_ people are there, but why would he ask?”

“I do not know,” Spock answers. He feels more and more uneasy.

The monitor pings.

_**From** : KELVIN_

_“”””janice”””” i c ur vpn thts not ur name_

_**From** : KELVIN_

_idk if u cna hlp me im suspicios_

Nyota looks puzzled. “An insult?”

Spock furrows his eyebrows and types.

_**From:** Rand, Janice_

_What was the purpose of your first transmission?_

_**From** : KELVIN_

_i didnt know if my stuf was going thru bc no 1 i message evr rplies 2 any1_

Nyota purses her lips. “I read about the ionic cloud around Tarsus. It makes communications sketchy, but they should be relatively operational, considering the recent advancements in ionic neutralization.”

_**From** : KELVIN_

_how do i kno if i can trst u_

“Give me the computer,” she says. 

_**From** : Rand, Janice_

_Are you in any immediate danger?_

_**From** : KELVIN_

_idk u didnt evn answer my questn_

_**From** : KELVIN_

_i was. i am. i stole this padd._

Nyota turns to Spock. “Call your mom again. Something is definitely wrong.”

 

* * *

 

Spock’s mother is on another line with his father within ten seconds of hearing the news.

“Sarek, please, just please talk to the FBI. We have to do something. I know what you’re capable of, so don’t you _dare_ give me that attitude.”

His father’s voice, stern and steady, says, “We do not know if these claims have any merit. We have little evidence, only the word of this KELVIN, who according to my current database, does not exist. None by that name is on Tarsus IV.”

Nyota comes in like a storm, invading Spock’s space with fire and anger. “Ambassador Sarek, there are lives at stake. With all due respect, sir, it is your duty to protect those in danger. This KELVIN, whoever he is, is scared.”

“It would not be prudent to interfere in Terran affairs. The basis of the Vulcan alliance with Earth is mutual separation and cooperation. In this case, it is Earth’s citizenry on the colony. It may be seen as a violation of trust to meddle in Tarsus IV without sufficient cause. Governor Kodos is a trusted Terran politician.” Sarek’s voice slips like smooth stone.

“How much evidence? How much evidence do you need for me to prove to you that this could be something?” Nyota pleads. “Tell me, and I’ll get it.”

Spock rests a hand on her shoulder, and she brushes him off, too agitated to be calmed.

Sarek says, “Miss Uhura you are an intelligent young woman. Spock says this often and with great respect. You understand that any argument must have an abundance of evidence to convey a premise logically. I trust that you can do this. Amanda, I shall call you at a later time, for the Council requires my presence. Goodbye.”

The line goes dead, and Spock’s mother sighs.

“He’s just so stubborn. Logical, he calls it,” she mutters. She then addresses them. “This might be serious. Please, I just have a bad feeling about this.”

The computer pings.

_**From** : KELVIN_

_chaos_

 

* * *

 

_**From** : Rand, Janice_

_KELVIN what is your current situation?_

_**From** : Rand, Janice_

_KELVIN tell us what we can do to help._

_**From** : Rand, Janice_

_It has been four weeks since your last transmission. Most other communications from the colony have also halted. The government has begun probes. Let us know you are safe._

_**From** : Rand, Janice_

_What is your name?_

_**From** : Rand, Janice_

_Answer._

_**From** : KELVIN_

_lost my other padd. taken by kodos_

_**From** : KELVIN_

_mayday_

 

* * *

 

In early January, all students receive a trite text message that notifies them of school wide class cancellations. Nyota looks at Spock over their stack of books in the library, clearly concerned, before furiously searching local news outlets. Students around them do the same, typing away on their laptops. He barely has time to register the shock on her fave before she both grabs his sleeve and all of their books, and drags him all the way across campus to her dorm, where she sits him down next to her on the bed and flips to CNN. Spock’s mother calls him, but he lets it go to voicemail.

"-from Earth's first colony, Tarsus IV, arriving today after two years out in space,” a pundit says. "Approximately four thousand people are mostly unharmed and arriving in LAX via Earth and Vulcan shuttlecrafts. The other four thousand are presumed d-dead or ill. With more details as the story develops, we turn to John Rose who is on the scene now at LAX. John?"

John, a neatly dressed reporter, stands in front of the exit terminal of the airport. The shouting of other journalists is loud and grating, and Spock feels distinctly numb.

"Thanks, Christine. Here we have several survivors arriving, seeming mostly shaken ad they step back out onto Earth. It appears that Vulcan has agreed to step in and assist Earth's officials with some of these proceedings, as it will be difficult to piece together what happened."

Vulcan officials and Earth officials guide people to vans outside the terminal. Some colonists look shaken. Others look resigned, staring resolutely away from the cameras.

John continues. "Governor Kodos, who ruled this colony, is reportedly dead after Earth's forces arrived to stop what was apparently a-a mandated e-execution after a widespread famine. Initial attempts by civilians were hindered by manipulations to the ionic cloud, most likely by Kodos's subordinates."

Out past John, a commotion rises as medical personnel frantically wheels out a body on a stretcher onto the tarmac. A gasp rises around the airport, as the blanket covering him threatens to fall, exposing for a brief second sallow skin and several hastily stitched wounds striping diagonally across his ribs. A shock of blonde hair lays almost flat, matted thick with congealed blood.

"It seems we have a survivor in critical condition! A boy, from what I can see. Doctors are taking him to UCLA Medical, I presume, via helicopter. Now, we can see a handful of children now emerging." He shakes himself out of a heartbroken stupor. "You saw it here. Today. Are these the results of a bureaucratic mishap that crossed ethical lines or an event that was managed the best it could be? My name is John Rose. Back to you."

Christine nods from her half of the screen. "The world mourns with the victims of Tarsus IV. An interview with Admiral Jamison when we return.”

Nyota shakes her head, lines of tension taut on her face. “All those people. Gone. It could have been prevented. We had it. We could have saved them.”

Spock purses his lips. His chest feels tight. “A famine is… a longterm event. With the little data I have to judge this situation, I can only say that it is possible that this Governor Kodos ignored basic protocol to call for help. It is logical to assume we could do little to remedy the situation, considering our limited resources.”

Their phones buzz again.

 **From** : UC Berkeley Reponse Network

_Students, in light of recent events, classes will be cancelled for the next week. Counseling is available to those who require it. Please exercise caution when venturing off campus._

Spock senses a distinct heaviness in his heart. A fifty percent chance of survival for each colonist. No, that is not quite right. Fifty percent implies each colonist is equal in the eyes of this Kodos. Fifty percent implies random selection. It must have been something else. Ethnicity? Social status? Health? Perhaps all of the above. A game stacked against those who could not find the means to break through the glass ceiling. In this case, it would be appropriate to call it a steel ceiling. Despicable. Protest would be an aptly human response.

Outside Nyota’s room is the sound of sobs.

 

* * *

 

The next couple of weeks is characterized by candle light vigils and calls for blood. Leaked photos taken by a rebellious soldier from the weeks leading up to the Tarsus IV rescue mission do not ease the tensions. One, titled in _The New York Times_ as “Protection,” a grainy shot of a male, skinny for his late teens, standing bold and bloody in front of a group of eight young boys huddled behind him in a cave, resonates with the population. All of them have crude mud smudges, like war paint, striped thick and dark on their gaunt faces. The leader, as _TIME Magazine_ will call him, has a bleeding cut running parallel to his jaw, starkly red like a beacon amongst the black dots and stripes. Analysts will later observe that the cut is clean, most likely from a knife.

Spock does not want to ponder what circumstances reduced the militia of Tarsus IV to hand-to-hand combat over fire arms, or who would use such violence towards a teenager protecting eight younger children, or perhaps what his fate was, or who would even take this picture instead of helping.

Tarsus IV, the horror that shakes the world off its axis, becomes an ethical quandary, divisive. Once one person in power voices their support for Kodos, many ordinary people follow. The Realists versus The Idealists, they call it. As it turns out, people, shielded by money and their computer screens, can still find it in them to defend a genocide.

Soon enough, though, people forget. Tarsus IV and its victims fade away, many changing their names and slipping away under witness protection. The nine boys from “Protection” are gone, too. No one really knows them, and, in any case, they do not seem to want to be found. WikiLeaks manages to get a hold of one of their names, Everett James, but that does more harm than good; a month later, Everett James goes missing and leaves behind a state-funded apartment stocked to the ceiling with non-perishables. He is survived by two baffled parents and a younger sister.

Nyota doesn’t forget, not in her ethics class, not in her humanities classes, not in her biology class. Spock doesn’t either. He suspects that she will never let him bypass the tragedy, and he is thankful for it.

“I grieve with thee,” he whispers to her, as she pores over, again and again, UN reports about the incident. The stress is obvious in her face, her eyes tired and her hands shaking with anger.

He pours her more tea.

"Thank you, Spock. I just... I just want to help people. I want to be a part of something significant. I want to stand for justice, for good."

And she continues well into the night. Spock brings her a blanket.

 

* * *

 

Why the Memorial to James T. Kirk and Spock Is Stupid

August 4, 2082

Mark Ihejirika

 _So as you’ve probably heard by now, the government cronies are memorializing a half-human and a missing man. Why, you ask? Well, it’s not clear._  

_Mister Spock is a teacher now. He’s smart. He’s contributing something to society, even though his dad is an alien. But there are many smart people out there. He hasn’t cured cancer, ended hunger, nor has he really discovered anything of true merit. He’s just a halfie who’s smart. I do have less issue with him, though, than I do his phony counterpart._

_We had to do some digging for James T. Kirk, and I couldn’t really find a reason to see him as anything more than a guy doing his job. After Nero and Khan, where was good ol’ Jim? There’s no record of him anywhere after. We looked into public housing records and employment records across several different states, and we found nothing. James T. Kirk, government employee and hero, is gone. "Helping” us two times and ditching? Please. Barely worth a footnote. We didn't ask for his help, and we sure as hell could have coped without him. His dad was the hero. Not him. He's old now, anyway, if he didn't already kick the bucket._  

_Liberals love these two. They call them symbols for unity. Whatever. Wasting taxpayer money on them is a gross overstep. There is no need to go back and rewrite the history of Nero and Khan. Like I said, it is history._

_#NotMyHeroes_

_Mark Ihejirika is a political analyst for both Breitbart and Fox News._

— Ihejirika, Mark. “Why the Memorial to James T. Kirk and Spock Is Stupid.” _Breitbart_ , August 4, 2082. Web.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vulcan made first contact with Earth about 60 years prior to the beginning of this story.
> 
> The archive warning will become clear later on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years, fast-tracks, and frustration for Spock.

_Maintained by the government as a new age cultural landmark, The Kirk House, located in Riverside, Iowa, is quite pristine in terms of its condition. There are no signs of rot, and the grey paint on the exterior is without fault. Maintenance staff dusts the interior regularly. In terms of its actual content, however, the Kirk House is a mausoleum._

_There are three bedrooms in this house: the master (Winona Kirk’s), the southern bedroom (George Samuel Kirk’s), and the northern bedroom (James Tiberius Kirk’s). The master is decorated sparsely. The minimal furnishings suggest a life away from home. A small wedding picture, nailed almost viciously to the east wall, is crookedly placed; it is of Winona and Frank Huntington. Many speculate Huntington put it up there himself in an effort to cement a reminder of his presence in their lives just before Winona finalized her separation from him. Others suggest it was her own doing, to remind herself of that period of time in her life despite her apparent unhappiness._

_George Samuel Kirk’s bedroom is fit for an eighteen-year-old. Before he left for Exo III, he was an avid fan of Led Zeppelin and, more curiously, Drake, judging from the compact discs on his desk. A few posters hang up on his wall, a little worn now, and his blue stripe sheets are unmade. A lamp in the corner is broken. A single picture of his father, Winona, and him sits in a frame on the bedside table; tragically, there is no photograph of his younger brother. A couple of pamphlets lie on his desk. One is for Tarsus IV, and the other is for Exo III. Records state clearly that he spent the rest of his life on Exo III._

_James Kirk’s bedroom is perhaps the most curious of all three. The standard child of tumultuous upbringing would have a room that reflects it — broken objects, angry journals, or a stark absence of anything personal at all, perhaps. But James Kirk's desk has a stack of paperback books (matching a similar one in the living room), notebooks filled with math and stories, and a startlingly comprehensive outline of the 2008 unsolved case in which three men and three women went missing in Riverside. Upon further examination of his notes, it becomes apparent that his anger, his sorrow, and his hope lived in his works. In one of his stories, he imagines that Diogenes of Sinope was driven to his archetypal cynicism by a world unwilling to hear his pleas; his Diogenes acts out for attention. In another, he writes about an alien woman named Wexa from the fictional planet of Kersia Gamma who endures the pain of loss after her world is destroyed, and she is only left with her children and her wits; it is easy to see where the inspiration for that came from._

_James Kirk's room is a testament to both his hope and his pathological repression. The genius and the torment of him were confined to a stack of paperbacks and notepads._

_—_ Said, Haidar. _Psychology of the Interior_. New York: Random House Publishing, 2103. Print.

 

* * *

 

Sarek is the one who ends up pushing Spock towards government work. Amanda is the one who insists he start with the FBI. Spock is the one who insists he makes his own choices as a being dictated by logic. He ends up taking their advice anyway. They pull the strings.

Nyota gives him a look when he tells her over tea. She purses her lips in that way she does when she is disappointed in him, and she shakes her head, just enough for him to see her begrudging loud and clear.

“You know, Spock, you can’t let your parents dictate your life.”

“I assure you, they do not. I made this decision out of the assumption that I would do the most good in this position. My parents hold high positions in the regard of Terran and Vulcan officials, and as their son, it is logical that I maximize diplomatic potential by working in law enforcement.” He sips his tea. “You and I have often spoken of doing the most good, most efficiently.”

She sighs and picks at the knitting of her sleeve. “I meant that we do good and help people in a way that we feel is right for us and them.”

“You are well aware that a move into academia for me is not prudent at this time,” he reasons. “Though it is a noble and patient pursuit, I prefer a course that reaches a broader scope than simply the top tier of academics.”

Nyota snorts, hiding her smile with her cup. “Are you implying that your papers are ‘top tier?’”

“I am simply stating that academia is-“

“I know, Spock. I’m just messing with you. It’s just you’re moving to work for the FBI, for god’s sake, and I’m staying in San Francisco to develop linguistic shit, and I’m going to miss you.”

He places a hand on her forearm. “We shall converse whenever we are able. If you are amenable, I will visit whenever convenient.”

She sniffles and laughs. “I’m laughing and crying at the same time. It’s just so surreal. Four years gone since I asked you to get tea with me that first time. You were so stiff and prissy.”

“I was simply unfamiliar with you.”

“No, you were prissy,” she says, laughing heartily.

He allows a quirk of his lip and looks out the glass pane and into the quiet street outside. The sun presses pink and red smears over the sky. The hum of the city has shrunken to a gentle purr, and he thinks it is fitting.

“You must promise me that you will not let people limit you, Nyota.”

Her eyes are sharp. “Of course. Promise me the same.”

He nods.

 

* * *

 

After landing in Boston Logan, Spock finds himself driving out to Leyden per the instruction of his boss – a stern man by the name of Director Pike – several miles away from the large city.

Here in rural Massachusetts, he finds that the trees seem to burn scarlet and gold. The air smooths over clean, and the distant clouds peak neatly over the forestry like egg whites. Leyden, a small township, sits in farm country, and the roads to and from it wind like asphalt rivers.

Towards the edge of this town in the middle of a green field framed by the forest lies a small observatory. The dome is grey and decorated crudely with black paint on the side, reading _USS Enterprise NCC-1701_. The entrance is framed by ivy.

Just inside is Director Pike himself.

“Spock. You’re just on time. Come.”

The circular room is organized but quite full. Stacks of books are placed on the outskirts, too numerous to be accommodated by the bookshelves and sorted by subject and author. Two desks, one new and one old, sit adjacent to one another. One is swept clean but for a lamp, a chipped mug full of pens, and a _sedum morganianum_. The other is full of various forms, diagrams, and a _crassula ovata_ in a painted, golden pot.

“Sorry, this place is a goddamn mess.” Pike shakes his head. “We only use this place because your partner insists on it. It was already in his family, so we let him. It’s not like you two need to be stationed out in DC, anyhow.”

“Partner?”

“Yup. You’re going to be partnered with that goofball over there.”

He motions towards a shock of blonde hair just visible behind the other side of the telescope. Spock hears the faint hum of cello rendered tinny by small speakers.

“Jim! Get your ass over here,” Pike calls.

Jim, a surprisingly young man, startles slightly and removes his earbuds. Wearing a worn flannel and jeans, he looks casual and aloof in comparison to Spock and Pike, both wearing suits. His hair is mussed, and his glasses are slightly askew on his face. A pen is tucked behind his ear. He smiles easily and saunters over.

“Who is this?” he asks, eyes assessing.

Pike rolls his eyes. “Your partner. They call him Quirky Kirk.”

"But never to my face," Jim adds.

Spock raises his hand in greeting. “I am Spock.”

Jim raises his hand and forms the Vulcan salute almost effortlessly. “I’m Jim Kirk.”

Pike, looking intensely uncomfortable, sighs. “I’ll take my leave, then. Jim, you show him the ropes. I need to head back to Logan to catch that flight to DC.”

Alone now, Jim seems to shrink back slightly at the tense silence, and yet, Spock notes, he tries to engage.

“Right. So. I’m sure Chris told you what it is I do,” Jim begins. He flits around with a slightly nervous energy, passing his notebook from hand to hand.

“I am broadly aware of your work,” Spock replies, unsure of what to make of this young man.

“Okay, uh good. I do work on the unexplained shit in the world, ya know? But I’m unconventional, so that’s why my division is only me. And now you.”

They sit at the desks. Jim glances at Spock.

“I got you this little plant, I guess as a welcome gift. It gets kind of lonely working up here so I figured you’d want something, and my friend had extra so,” he rambles.

“Thank you for your generosity,” Spock says, a little stiff.

Jim bites a little at his lower lip, slouching in his chair. “So… If we’re going to be working together, might as well get to know each other right?”

Spock considers for a moment. “I believe the best course of action is to remain professional so as not to detract from our work here.”

He looks a little crestfallen, blue eyes flickering between Spock’s only to settle back on his desk. “Oh. Well. I have some files for you to look through. We can choose our next field assignment, in that case.”

Spock feels the slightest twinge of guilt.

Jim pulls a large stack of files from his own desk and pushes it onto Spock’s. “I already sorted through them, so this pile is the filtered version.”

Before Spock can respond, Jim strolls back to his work behind the other side of the telescope. He listens for a moment, as the sound of pencil on paper echoes through the dome.

 

* * *

 

They end up settling on a case in Salem where a series of young men and women go missing over a period of forty years in intervals of one per year. Spock is fairly certain that the pattern is not so much a pattern as it is a coincidence, and Jim is quite sure it is a pattern.

Exiting the car, Jim is nearly vibrating with excitement. Bundled in a Harvard sweater and beanie, Jim looks almost juvenile. Rain sprinkles lightly down on them both, and the red leaves fallen from the trees pool soggily around the gutters.

“I think it’s witches, Spock.”

“You must be speaking in jest,” he offers, quite confused.

“No, really! I honestly think it’s witches. Or someone thinks these people are witches. Either way, it makes sense. It’s October, and it just fits the profile for Salem!” He pauses. “Chris didn’t tell you about this?”

Spock elects to ignore him. They approach a brick house on the corner and knock on the door. An old man answers.

“Special Agents James T. Kirk and Spock. FBI. We’re here to investigate the disappearance of Jamie Hurt,” Jim says, flashing his badge.

The old man scoffs. His face pale tellingly, however. “FBI? Aren’t ya young, kid? I already talked to the police, anyway..”

Jim puts on a serious face. “Old enough to know that your deflection might indicate either an unwillingness to talk about Jamie because of guilt or sadness. Let’s find out which it is, shall we?”

The old man, Anthony Hurt, lets them in. Spock observes that the little house is in a more or less decent state, and that Anthony, home on a Wednesday afternoon, seems to be retired. The furniture is quite dated, but the evidence of youth is everywhere in the items scattered around the house. The iPod on the counter, the MAC lipstick on the coffee table, and the earbuds left carelessly on the couch all tell of a girl gone.

They sit at the kitchen table.

“So, Mr. Hurt, when was the last time you saw Jamie?” Jim asks.

The old man sighs. He wrings his hands and smooths down his sweater. “I saw her the morning she disappeared.”

"Anything unusual, Mr. Hurt? Any strange behavior? Any evidence that she was involved in something?"

He looks offended. "Involved in what? Jamie was a straight A student!"

Spock fights the urge to slap a hand over Jim's mouth. "What my partner meant to ask was, did Jamie encounter anything strange, people or events, that may cause changes in her behavior?"

"Enough to clue us in?" Jim adds.

He slumps a little in his chair. His bald head shines with nervous perspiration. A muscle twitches in his jaw.

"I guess she's been slacking off a little lately. I mean, she's eighteen. She's a senior, and you know how seniors get," he mumbles. "She got her first C two weeks ago."

Spock and Jim wait patiently while Hurt wipes his forehead.

"She uh... She brought home a man," he says with some difficulty. His face reddens, and he sweats even more.

Jim's eyes widen, the blue reflecting almost indecently the excitement behind them. "Who? What did he look like?"

"He was fat. Sweaty. A real scumbag if ya ask me," Hurt grunts. "Jamie said he was a tutor or some cat shit like that."

Spock purses his lips. "And you deduced that he was not?"

Jim crosses his arms as if trying to contain himself.

Hurt grimaces and looks at the bay window. The rain has intensified, producing a steady din of staccato beats.

"She called him Mudd. Some guy who was helping her with her homework."

Jim pales. "Okay, Mr. Hurt. We have all we need. We'll be in contact as soon as we find anything."

He sits up abruptly in his chair and leaves. Spock hurriedly says his goodbyes before following suit.

"May I ask why you did that?" he inquires, almost offended.

Jim opens the car door and gathers his sweater closer about himself as he sits down. He urges Spock to get in the car.

"I know that name. We need to get back to the Enterprise and get some files before we act. Call Pike and tell him it's Mudd. He'll know," Jim says, already tearing down the road back to Leyden.

"The Enterprise?"

"Yes, yes, the observatory is the Enterprise, don't you spoil her good name. Now call Pike. Mudd is sketchy as fuck and if we don't act now we may not catch him."

Spock squares his jaw and dials the number.

Pike, in summary, tells him to wait back in Leyden until further instruction. Jim rolls his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 **From:**  Nyota

how is the job so far?

 **From:** Spock

The job is intriguing. I have yet to form an opinion.

 **From:** Nyota

why? not mentally challenging enough?

 **From:** Spock

It is quite challenging. My partner is currently driving approximately 20 mph above the speed limit towards our base of operations. He is emotional.

 **From:** Nyota

oh no emotions let's shield spock from them lol

 **From:** Spock

Nyota, Vulcans experience emotions.

 **From:** Nyota

jk just messin

 **From:** Nyota

tell me more lol what is he like

 **From:** Spock

His name is Jim Kirk. He seems to be younger than you and I, which is unusual. We are young ourselves.

 **From:** Nyota

younger than us? spock we're 22

 **From:** Spock

Which explains his emotional state.

 **From:** Spock

He is brash.

 **From:** Nyota

you don't seem to like him

 **From:** Spock

I do not have an opinion.

 **From:** Nyota

right. gtg. testing is done. text me later.

 **From:**  Spock

Goodbye, Nyota.

 

* * *

 

It is dark by the time they return. The stars frame quiet Leyden like a celestial crown, and Jim opens the roof a crack. A breeze brushes by, stirring the pile of papers on Spock's desk, but he pays it no mind. Jim, no longer so high strung with excess energy, looks peaceful beneath the halo, and Spock thinks – shamefully and if only for a second – that Jim's eyes could fit right in up amongst the constellations with the way they reflect the lamplight. Jim stares up at the stars and for a second reaches up as if to beckon them closer, or perhaps to ask for them to take him home.

The moment is broken when Jim presses a large file into his hands. It bulges at the sides, and a stray paper threatens to fall to the floor.

"This is what we have on Mudd. He's a real piece of work, but he doesn't make much sense. He's been the same age for like forty years. We haven't been able to get ahold of him," Jim explains. He makes his way to his desk and absently tucks a pen behind his ear. "I thought at first he was an alien. But then I considered his location in Salem then rethought it."

Spock opens the file. Harcourt Fenton Mudd. Photos of a portly man with a handlebar mustache in gaudy clothing, all dated in October over the past forty years, fill the portfolio. Newspaper clippings from _The Globe_ and the local paper indicate several disappearances.

"He is difficult to overlook, this Mudd."

Jim sighs and types furiously on his laptop. "Tell me about it. He's kinda gross. A cowboy hat? Really?"

"But he is inconspicuous in October," Spock notes. He sits at his desk and begins organizing the contents of the file.

"Yeah, which makes it even harder to catch him. Salem gets fucking wild with the witchy Halloween shit," he bemoans.

Spock turns towards Jim. "What does he do with those he takes?"

Jim crosses his arms and settles back in his seat. His blue eyes flicker over Spock's before skittering away to rest on his little plant. He bites his lips pink. "They've never recovered any bodies. We don't know what he does. I suspect sacrifice. Or magical service."

"A more logical conclusion would perhaps entail trafficking or something of the like, considering the ages of the victims," Spock offers.

Jim scoffs. "Maybe. Trafficking leaves a paper trail, though. Money changes hands at some point."

Spock feels something stir in his gut, something akin to frustration. "You must consider this logically."

"You know, I've been doing this for a year longer than you with a good rate of success," Jim snap.

"I see now why Director Pike partnered you with me. You lack the skills to act sensibly. You do not think." And before he can stop himself, he mutters, "One wonders why he keeps you."

Spock immediately regrets it as Jim shuts like a safe. His expression falls stony, and he looks hurt behind the stoicism.

"Look. I get that you're, what, half-Vulcan, and you guys don't do the emotions thing, but it would be good to not be a hypocrite and be fucking professional," Jim bites out. He raises a brow. "Just let me know if you find anything."

He gets up and settles by the cork board nearby. He pins up various articles and spreads a large map of Salem flat on the floor.

Jim sighs and removes his glasses to rub his eyes. "Where are you staying?"

Spock furrows his brows. "I acquired an apartment in Leyden."

"Great. Get going. I'll be here for a little while longer."

"You intend to stay here?"

"Well, yeah, I mean I don't sleep much anyway," he grumbles. "I'll only be here for a couple more hours, so just go home."

Spock nods, looking back only once to see Jim crouched over the map, plotting out points meticulously.

 

* * *

 

Jim is still working when Spock returns the next morning.

“You did not return home,” Spock says, not so much a question as it is a statement.

"Huh? Oh, no. I just had some coffee. There's a pot on my desk if you want some," he says, gesturing vaguely.

Spock feels intensely irritated. "You cannot work at efficient capacity if you do not rest."

"Look, man, I know what I'm doing. I'll sleep when this is done. And besides, I think I know where Mudd is hiding."

Spock looks at the map, now viciously written over in neat, black script. Jim has circled in red a network of caves just east of Salem labelled The Harpy Tunnels in marker. Convenient.

"The Harpy Tunnels are kinda a local thing. There's a name for them, but they're so small that they're not on the map and no one could be fucked to remember them."

"May I ask why they are called that?" Spock asks.

"There were sightings a while ago, I guess, of harpies, and it's like a local legend or something. Fits in real well with the witches thing if you ask me," He rubs his eyes. "Let Pike know we have a lead. I can't call him because he always somehow knows when I'm 'not taking care of myself.' I'm going home for an hour to change and clean up," Jim says, meandering his way out the door. 

Spock sighs, just barely, before bringing the map to his desk when he hears the turning of an engine outside.

The map is new, but Jim’s vigorous work has seemingly increased its age dramatically. It is creased over, folded, drawn on, with incredible enthusiasm.

According to Jim’s analysis, Mudd has been moving from west to east. The pattern is curious. A migration of sorts. Closer and closer to the so-called Harpy Tunnels. But why? Perhaps it is where the victims are stored. Perhaps it is his own home. His base of operations, so to speak. Spock grows agitated just thinking about Jim’s theory of a witch’s circle.

He dials Christopher Pike’s number and tells him as much.

“God, that kid is just full of mystery, isn’t he?” Pike asks rhetorically.

“I agree that his theory is ridiculous,” Spock concurs.

“Yeah, well, he is good at what he does, even if his causal analysis is wrong all the damn time. But we can’t move in too early on this guy. He knows we’re looking for him, and we might not see him for another year if he runs now,” Pike grumbles.

Spock looks down at the map. “If he is currently at ‘The Harpy Tunnels,’ then he will run north, perhaps, into the forest. It would be wise to surround the tunnels with personnel.”

“No, we wait. We wait until something turns up. It’s too risky right now.”

“I expect much protest from my partner.”

Pike exhaustedly replies, “Tell him to suck it up. I’ll work on getting the Salem PD to give us any recent arrest records. Maybe Mudd is among them. Until then. Keep Jim out of trouble.”

 

* * *

 

Jim does not return after an hour. In fact, he does not return after two. Or three.

In that time, Spock has planned twelve different routes of entry and exit to the Harpy Tunnels. One through the forest and out the entrance of the caves. One around the west entrance and out the north face. Another through the south crevasses and out the east.

Spock observes the work below him, written in dark blue, immaculate script on the outskirts of Jim’s own black writing. The mingling of the two resembles the collision of elemental alkali metal and water. The differences protrude like flame and heat on the paper of the map. Jim is almost poetic in his observations where Spock is concise and scientific.

Like a pure alkali metal, Spock thinks, Jim is reactive.

Spock can see the slumps and the crests of Jim's energy just on the map, brought to life and killed again by caffeine, willpower, and biological necessity.

He tries — very hard, really — to suppress doubt for Jim who is most likely unconscious on whatever bed or couch he stumbled upon first in his home.

He tries, until he gets a short series of troubling text message.

 **From:** James Kirk

found mudd. followd him 2 hrpy. dnt follow bc dngers

 **From:** James Kirk

omg jkjkjkjkjk so fucked call pike nd salem pd im on north side of hrpy

 **From:** James Kirk

bring gun mayday

Like pure alkali metal, Jim is reckless.

 

* * *

 

TMZ _acquired James Kirk’s letters to Professor Spock in 2080 during a journalist’s desperate attempt to find the limelight. Kept in a wooden box on a bedside table, this collection, reportedly several inches thick, contained years’ worth of correspondence, before and after 2027. Chased out by a young Vulcan attendant, this journalist escaped with a scant few letters, one of which is featured below. Blunt and intriguing, one wonders what Professor Spock could write — just a few years into their acquaintanceship — to produce such a curious reaction from a man who later disappeared from the eyes of everyone else._    

 

> _April 17, 2023_
> 
> _Spock—_
> 
> _I don’t know how you find time to write me back so quick. You’re always talking about your lectures and your consulting and blah blah blah, Mr. Busy. Whatever. I hope you didn’t fuck over some kid's thorough essay grade just so you could reply, you big doof._
> 
> _To answer the question in your last letter, yes, I am relatively healthy. I currently have a black eye and a scrape on my forehead, but don’t worry, it’s just cause I was stupid and tripped over someone’s shoes in the damn doorway on my way out. I bet it makes me look rugged._
> 
> _Mongolia is strange. It’s hard to imagine the shit going down here right now. The steppes are so wide and flat, the sky looks like it’s four feet away, and when the clouds come, it’s like they’re heavy and waiting to just be touched. There are little herds in the distance like scattered popcorn. Imagine a green field (like your cheeks hahahahaha). Now imagine the mountains whipped up like peaked egg whites just at the far edge. Now imagine me lying on my back, thinking of the way your stupid bowl cut would swish in the fucking stupid wind. Don’t tell Sulu I said that or I’m going to be upset. He already thinks I’m a sap._
> 
> _If there’s one thing bad about Mongolia — aside from the mystery anthrax outbreak, duh — it’s that I’m on assignment with Theo Chen, that asshole. He calls me La Llorona because I had the audacity to cry — just a little — when a kid died at my feet. I just couldn’t take it. He was three, Spock. And that ass Theo doesn’t even know the story of La Llorona. Ass._
> 
> _You’ll probably suggest I rest or take a break or come home, I know. I’ll be home soon. I just have to do this, you know? Because I feel, sometimes, like I didn’t do enough before. You know that._
> 
> _Lastly, I said it once, and I’ll say it again. It is not a waste to write letters by hand. It’s a surefire way to make sure you’re listening to me instead of saying, “Jim you’re illogical and stupid, and twenty-three-year-olds shouldn’t be so motivated and inspired and smart.” The last parts are implied._
> 
> _Write me back soon please so I have something to read nonchalantly when Theo tries to be pretentious again. Tell Uhura I’ll school her ass in Mongolian any day._
> 
> _—JTK_

— Rivera, Horatio. _Primary Source Guide: Controversies of the 21st Century_. Chicago: Penguin, 2094.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a slow burn.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a mission and some frustration

**Lee** :  Hello. We are joined here today by a survivor of Tarsus IV, Kevin Riley. [LEE TURNS TOWARDS RILEY] How do you feel today?

 **Riley** : I don't... I don't know. I-I don't know. I just think about how lucky I am to be here, even forty years later.

 **Lee** : Tell me more about that.

 **Riley** : My luck?

 **Lee** : Sure.

 **Riley** : I guess it ain't luck when you work hard for it, right? I remember we were on our feet twenty hours a day. I remember always being scared o' dyin'. We worked to be here, you know?

 **Lee** : Who is we?

 **Riley** : My friends. We hid out in the caves. I was only ten, but I knew something was really bad.

 **Lee** : How did you survive? Was there not a famine?

 **Riley** : Well, we just did. We scavenged, and we was always taken care of.

 **Lee** : By who?

 **Riley** : [RILEY BEGINS TO STAND] My leader.

 **Lee** : Kodos?

 **Riley** : [DISTRESSED] No. Kodos was not my leader. My leader was a protector-

 **Lee** : [INTERRUPTING] Who? What would you have done that Kodos did not?

 **Riley** : [RILEY, BARELY AUDIBLE AS HE REMOVES HIS ATTACHED MIC] Called for help.

 **Lee** : [REDACTED]

[END BROADCAST]

—Riley, Kevin. _Tarsus IV Reexamined_. By Jenna Lee. _NPR_ , January 12, 2056.

 

* * *

 

Spock finds a woman slouched and barely conscious by the northern entrance of the Harpy Tunnels. Her red hair, curly and wild, is speckled with dirt and pebbles, and by her feet is a smattering of scarlet and fragments of feathers. Her temple is visibly swollen, even from several yards away. She gazes absentmindedly at the circling gulls. A med team is on her instantly.

She comes to her senses at the sight of help, black eyes darting from medic to medic. “W-what in God’s name? Jim?”

Spock kneels by her as a woman wraps her in a blanket. “Do you know where you are?”

Her eyes are sharp. “Of course I know where I am. Not a fuckin’ idiot. Jus’ somethin’ hit me.” She turns to the mouth of the tunnel. “Jimmy!”

“Why are you here?” he asks. He passes her an ice pack.

“Jim called. He said he needed root of aconite,” she mutters, scowling as she presses the pack to the contusion.

Spock ignores the voices on the walkie talkie in his pocket and says briskly, “Aconite is a poison. He intends to use it on Mudd?”

She shakes her head, looking up at the passing clouds overhead. “No, no. Said something about a witch or whatever. Not quite an unusual request for Quirky Kirk.”

Spock notes her listless gaze and thinks a concussion is possible.

“Why is that? Who injured you?” he asks, attempting to hold her attention.

The woman, suddenly sullen, replies, “Jimmy is nice. Just wants to help folks. Don’t know what the mechanics of his work are, but he just gets the results, is all.” She slouches more. "'Sides, didn't get a good look at 'er."

Spock hears Pike’s voice over the radio say urgently, “Move towards the center cavern. All personnel.”

He stands, offering her a solemn nod. She smiles.

“What’s your name, big guy?” she asks.

“Spock.”

“M’name’s Gaila Orwell. Best bartender in Framingham. Now get goin’. Whatever that man said on the radio sounds important. And Jimmy owes me for this shit. Gas ain’t cheap.”

She shakes the detritus out of her mane and dismisses him with the turn of her cheek.

 

* * *

 

Spock presses closer to the walls as he treads slowly through the dark of the tunnels. The dirt is fine and speckled with gravel, and further in, light hits in sporadic splatters from the holes to the surface. In the illuminated spots, he can see drops of congealing blood mixing with the dust. Deeper in, the perforations in the ceiling become less frequent. Distantly, he hears the sound of waves from the Salem harbor.

“Director Pike, come in,” he whispers into the radio.

“Here, Spock. What’s your status?” comes the gruff reply.

“I am currently on my way to the center cavern. I am reporting signs of a struggle, as evidenced by the blood. It may be from an animal, but I do not have enough evidence to confirm,” he answers. "A witness at the entrance indicated a female perpetrator."

A pause. “Okay. Keep moving. Mudd could have accomplices. The north side tunnels are shallow and short, so you won’t have any trouble getting to the central cavern. We’re approaching from the west and south tunnels, which are blocked for no goddamn reason. Radio in when you get there. We're working on clearing paths."

Perhaps forty more feet ahead, the path takes a sharp curve westward. Spock approaches with caution and hears the distinct groan of a male in pain, the coarse edge of it knocking up and down the rock walls. It presses something uneasy in his gut, and it almost springs him into action until a dark shadow falls from above and the acrid smell of tar and blood closes like a fist over him. He hardly has the time to retaliate before a buzzing pain erupts at his temple and the ground in front of his prone form is flecked with a touch of green.

 

* * *

 

 

A probing ache settles rich and stubborn as Spock stirs to consciousness. The cavern, spotty with blood and entrails, sways in his vision like an inky underwater scene. Two figures, indistinguishable in the dark, are across him on the opposite side. Next to him, a man snickers and flicks his ear.

"Mistress, a Vulcan," he says with a lavish gesture. "I hope he is to your liking. Even tied him up nice for you."

Clearer now, Spock sees a chubby man giggling in inappropriate glee at his side. He swings a length of rope in his meaty hands, and  it catches his cowboy hat once or twice. Mudd, he deduces.

Said mistress steps forward, and Spock furrows his eyebrows in confusion. Her face, decidedly hawkish, is splattered with biological debris, and her hair flows like gnarled seaweed about her. Her body, however, is coated with tawny feathers. Her clawed feet scrape excitedly at the cavern floor. A probable illusion but all he has.

"Good, Muddy. He looks a little skinny, but I like them lean," she says, leaning in close.

Spock resists the urge to turn away from the burn of the odor and locks eyes with her. "Who are you?"

She laughs, her jaw hinging and unhinging in strange clicks. "I am a monster."

Mudd bounces from foot to foot. "A beautiful monster!"

Spock blinks away a swell in his headache before responding, "A monster with a propensity for childish games. Where are you keeping my partner?"

Her head moves in agitated jerks, bird-like, coming in even closer to him. Her cheek just slightly brushes his. "Why don't you look behind me, Vulcan?"

Mudd totters over to the opposite side of the cave and drags a barely conscious Jim and tosses him to the creature's feet. Blood from a wound in his side sticks to his clothes heavy like maroon cement, and Spock can see the beginnings of a bruise running along his cheekbone and under his eye. In a circle of light poking in from the ceiling, the tail ends of spidery veins shine through from beneath his skin. His blue eyes peek out from behind his eyelids before slipping back.

"He's a pretty one, isn't he?" she asks. "A real treat. Sweet."

She runs a black talon parallel to Jim's jaw, and he stirs, irritated. A grimace pulls at his lips as a manic smile pulls at hers.

"Oh see? Even got a seam for me to cut when I finally get to eat you," she whispers. "A scar like that is just so convenient."

Spock struggles against his bindings and scrambles with his fingers behind him to find a sharp rock to no avail.

"You will not succeed," he says with disdain. "We have forces en route to this location."

Jim stirs, and his hands twitch in their own bindings. A small, brown root jostles into view from Jim's pocket at the motion.

Mudd slaps a hand down onto the dirt in front of him, bloated face red with indignation. "My mistress deserves your respect, Vulcan. She has taken many strong people and is mightier than the sun itself!"

She quiets Mudd with a wave. "Muddy, no time to be fussy. We don't give food the time of day around here."

Spock feels the rope loosen just slightly at his motions. "What do you intend to do with us? With Mudd?"

The creature caresses Jim's cheek, pulling a startled grunt from his chest. "I eat you. A girl's always hungry. And Mudd gets paid in years, like he always does."

Mudd's smirk is grimy, a pit of sewage, as he jerks Jim to the ground. He comes to consciousness.

"Oh my god, Spock! I was wrong. I was wrong," he slurs. "You fuckin' crazy harpy, I thought you were a witch, but you're so much uglier than that."

Spock wills Jim to be silent, to be prudent with his choice of words with this dangerous figure, but it fails. Mudd's face turns ruddy with rage.

"What I tell you 'bout disrespecting the great Celeano?" he growls.

Jim grins, almost delirious. "Celeano? Lame name."

Her feathers bristle and rise, and her face crumples into an inhuman scowl. "'Lame?' I am Celeano of the wind, of the skies, of the dark, daughter of Thaumas."

Spock's eyes dart to an increasingly irritated Mudd, who grows more and more distracted by his own indignity. Celeano sputters and squawks.

Jim says, smooth as butter, "You're a fucking parody of a threat to me. You have no power here, bitch."

Celeano screams, pounding on the earth beneath her while Mudd huffs as Jim rolls away, apparently free from his bonds due to their dual distraction. He brandishes the root and pulls Spock behind him.

"What do you intend to do with that?" Spock hisses. His vision blurs ominously, the pain worsening in his head.

Jim bares his teeth. "Gotta get this to touch her. This is just plain poisonous to regular people like witches and all that, but to her this is one hundred percent her kryptonite. A touch to her skin will kill her."

Celeano's claws sweep towards them, her face becoming more and more sharp in the slanting shadows. Mudd quivers behind her, wielding a decently sized rock.

"We are both injured. Our vision is compromised. It is logical to assume we are being fed a shared delusion," Spock reasons, dodging a swoop.

Jim rolls his eyes. "You see her. I see her. What's there to argue about?"

Spock grinds out, "Mythical creatures do not exist."

"Well, maybe we just haven't seen them yet-" Jim says, before getting caught in the chest by her talon.

He falls to the floor, clutching at his wounds, and Spock grabs the fallen aconite out of the sheer urge to arm himself.

Celeano cackles. "Don't they teach you at your little Vulcan school not to mess with myths?"

Her smile, crooked on her sharp face, extends further across her cheeks, baring more of her gnarled teeth. A glint in her eye sends an unfamiliar sense of alarm straight to Spock's gut as she turns from Spock to Jim, and her talons grow sharp.

Jim, pale with the intense exertion, scrambles back towards the cave wall, eyes flitting from Spock to Mudd to Celeano in sheer panic. His hands scramble for purchase against the rocks, and the blue in his eyes seems especially piercing with the fear that stains them. 

"Oh, Vulcan. You just will have to see what happens when you let a little human taunt a harpy."

She dives towards Jim, claws out and jaw unhinged, and Spock throws the root blind across the way. Someone screams, loud and clear, and it sends a grinding sensation straight through his temples as he falls to his knees. His vision is consumed by black smoke, but he concludes it is a surreal image created by his compromised mind in his loss of consciousness.

 

* * *

 

Spock wakes to a blistering headache and a dim light. The sheets are relatively soft, and the air smells of cleaning solution. A strange buzz — foreign brain activity, Spock surmises — glides beneath the surface of his mind.

He opens his eyes and sees a blonde head resting on his bed. The owner's forehead just barely brushes his arm. Jim. His open shirt reveals a large bandage wrapped around his lean torso. His hunched position in the chair indicates exhaustion. As if on cue, he stirs, removing his head from Spock's arm.

“Spock?” he mumbles, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Jim.”

“Oh! Spock! You’re awake! Are you okay? Do you want water?” he asks too loudly, clumsy around the words too bulky for his mouth. His eyes are unfocused as they search Spock's face for purchase.

“No,” he replies. He considers his next words for a momen. Spock glances at Jim’s dark circles and the stitched cut running under his cheekbone and the fleshy white of an old scar along his jaw. He is overcome by an inconsolable rage. “You broke protocol.”

Jim rolls his eyes. “I did what I had to do. Mudd is in police custody now.”

Spock sits up. “No. That is not what I am referring to. The results are irrelevant if your process is flawed. You are injured. A civilian is injured.”

He grimaces. He mutters guiltily, “Gaila is fine. Just a little bit bruised.”

“And if she was worse?”

Jim doesn’t reply, his eyes fixed to the pattern on the sheets.

“You are juvenile. Your solution to the problem of Mudd was to defy orders to stay and gather evidence. Your solution was reckless. You do not think,” Spock bites out.

Jim stands. “I got the job done, asshole. And sometimes you need to break protocol to do that.”

"Simply accomplishing a task is not an acceptable perspective for this career-"

"You don't get it, Spock. We saved lives. If that isn't an 'acceptable perspective for this career' then I don't know what is," Jim says, just barely a whisper chasing the echoes of his booms.

He exits the room, leaving the topic hanging and Spock exhausted.

 

* * *

 

 **From** : Director Pike <cpike@leo.gov>

 **To** : Spock <spock@leo.gov>, Jim Kirk <jimtkirk@leo.gov>

 **Subject** : Official Log Report - Mudd

Agents,

Officially, Mudd was a sex trafficker from 2000-2016. Similarities to crimes prior to 2000 are a coincidence. Keep that in mind as you write your official reports. Your perceptions of the event may be altered. I’m sure I won’t have to remind you that your written reports should be free of ludicrous allegations.

Chris Pike

Agent-in-charge

  

> **From** : Jim Kirk <jimtkirk@leo.gov>
> 
> **To** : Spock <spock@leo.gov>, Director Pike <cpike@leo.gov>
> 
> **Subject** : RE:Official Log Report - Mudd
> 
> I saw a harpy that disappeared into a cloud of black smoke. She wanted to eat me. Mudd has been giving her people for 40 years in exchange for a longer life. That is what I’m going to write.
> 
> Fuck you,
> 
> Jim.

 

* * *

 

After a day of observation, Spock returns to The Enterprise and waters his _sedum morganianum_. Its naturally droopy leaves, plump with moisture, glisten with droplets and reflect light from the open roof of the observatory. 

He is unsurprised when Jim gingerly walks in and sits at his desk. He crosses his arms and adjusts his glasses. Childish.

Spock says, "Are you not instructed to stay at the hospital for treatment of your wounds?"

“Gaila is my friend,” Jim starts, blatantly ignoring him. “She’s really into gardening, so I asked for a root of aconite, and she delivered it to me all the way from her apartment in Framingham."

Spock sits straighter in his chair and purses his lips. He stares as Jim fixes his eyes on the dust motes, distracted.

Jim continues, “I didn’t know that Mudd would clock both of us and take me. I didn't mean to get her in any sort of trouble. Fuckin' hell."

Spock glances at him and folds his hands in his lap. "You ignored the orders of a superior."

Jim scoffs, but there is no heat behind it. "I did what I had to do to keep people safe."

"You must learn to deal in scenarios that are unfavorable. Some may be infinitely unfavorable. You cannot always win," he replies stoically.

He shifts in his seat and looks Spock in the eye. "The only problem I have with that is I don't believe in no win scenarios."

Spock refuses the urge to roll his eyes. "Your mentality is juvenile. This career requires humility and you have none."

"Guess what, buddy? I'm a damn adult, and I can trust my own judgment," Jim growls.

"That is exactly the issue. Your idealism and naïvety are costing you, and it would be prudent to-"

"You're not hearing me, Spock. I'm nineteen. The FBI knows I'm not going to abide by every code and every protocol."

Spock pauses. "You are nineteen?"

"Yes, I am, fuck you very much," Jim mumbles.

"That indicates an even more urgent need to follow basic protocol," Spock argues. "Your age and inexperience renders you reckless."

He sighs and shakes his head. "I fuckin' know, okay? I'm not a child, and don't act like you're so much fuckin' older than me, okay? You're like 22, so shut up."

Jim's cellphone rings. He glances at the caller ID and sighs. "Hello?"

An angry voice yells, just barely audible to Spock.

"Look, I'm fine. And I'm busy. What? Oh my god, you're at my house? What the hell. Fine." He hangs up and turns towards Spock. "We aren't done here."

Jim limps out the door, and Spock stares after him in disbelief before sifting through the stack of case files on Jim's desk.

 

* * *

 

Spock calls Nyota that night. Her voice on speaker echoes against the walls of his sparsely furnished apartment.

"You got knocked out? How?"

"I do not know how to properly communicate it," he replies.

She sighs. "That's a first. Just tell me the best you can."

Spock trains his eyes on the wall. "A large... woman incapacitated me. I then poisoned her."

Nyota gasps. "Poisoned? What the heck, Spock!"

He rubs his hands together in thought. "Yes, I realize that it is quite strange, but it is difficult to tell what is real and what is not."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I am not entirely certain of the events that transpired."

She sighs. "Tell me the best you can."

Spock contemplates for a moment, envisioning Nyota and the way she most likely looks sitting at her desk by the window in San Francisco, hair loose around her like a silk curtain. "My head injury may have caused a breach in my perception at the time. My recollections may not be accurate. I require a period of meditation."

"Maybe it's not important that they're accurate. You saw what you saw, in any case," she says. "What about your partner?"

"Jim was injured quite thoroughly. A laceration to the chest and a wound to the temple similar to my own. He is healing quite quickly, considering his propensity for insisting on staying out of the hospital." A pause. "He believes he saw a mythical creature."

Nyota giggles. "Oh my god, like a unicorn?"

"No, a harpy." The words feel wrong coming out of Spock's mouth.

A voice calls her from the other end of the line, and she groans. "Look, I've gotta go, but just know that I'm here to listen if you need me, okay?"

Spock imagines her words as a buoy, anchoring him to the present. "Thank you, Nyota. I shall speak with you again soon."

"Goodbye, Spock."

 

* * *

 

Spock takes a walk around Leyden. The sun smears pink and red across the sky like oil pastels rubbed rich across paper. The air runs smooth like glass across his skin, and the town rests quiet in the evening. A robin passes overhead.

Spock sees a small house at the end of the main street. Its white panelling is flaking off, and the garden in the front is lively but unkempt like a thriving jungle. Curtains are pulled across all windows except for one in the front.

A sullen looking man exits. His expression suggests discontent, and he adjusts his leather jacket almost haughtily. He sees Spock approaching and rolls his eyes.

"You a Vulcan?" he asks gruffly.

Spock answers in the affirmative.

The man sighs and places a hand over his eyes in exhaustion. "Goddamnit. Assuming you're the only Vulcan in this tiny ass town, I'm just going to say you're the one Jim has been goin' on and on about."

Spock tilts his head in confusion. "You are familiar with Jim?"

The man laughs wryly, his handsome face contorted with frustration. "Guess you could say that. I'm his friend and doctor and whatever else he wants me to be. Mind convincing him to stop getting hurt so much?"

He looks up at the stout one story and imagines Jim nursing his wounds alone. "I do not believe I can control him."

"Well, you try. Explains why he doesn't like you so much," he mutters. He turns towards Spock. "Look. I care about Jim. A lot. Just take care of him."

The man looks back towards the house, pain evident in his tired eyes. Something else lingers as he drags his gaze away.

Spock, at a loss for words, replies, "I will to the best of my abilities."

The man sighs and gets in his car. "That makes two of us. Keep him outta trouble, and we'll both be better for it."

He drives away, leaving Spock alone in front of a lonely home.

 

* * *

 

 **From** : Spock

Your doctor is concerned about you.

 **From** : Jim

fuk bones hes gross

 **From** : Spock

This "Bones" communicated to me that your recklessness is a pattern of behavior.

 **From** : Jim

stop it jesus ur so ugh

 **From** : Spock

You may think you are invincible, but you are not. You are nineteen and vulnerable.

 **From** : Jim

fuck u 2 im smrt let me do my thing

 **From** : Jim

u killd a hrpy 2day so i did sumthin right

 **From** : Spock

It may prove to be beneficial to consider your actions. Continual near-death experiences come from your reluctance to think.

 **From** : Spock

Are you receiving my messages?

 **From** : Jim

leave me alone

 **From** : Jim

fuk u im goin to bed

 **From** : Spock

Goodnight. Think about my words.

 **From** : Jim

goodnight buzzkill

 

* * *

 

What the Movie _The Agents' Code_ Missed

October 12, 2097

Taylor Jay

The Agents' Code _debuted last weekend to a rousing $90M box office haul. This retelling of the lives of James T. Kirk and S'chin T'gai Spock opened to critical acclaim and is expected to gross another $100M in the coming week alone. Yubin Shin of_ KoreAm _called it a "cinematic victory of indulgent humor, sorrow, and grace." Justin Nuñez of_ The New Yorker _described it as "a genuine tear-jerker, reminiscent of a century behind us." However, despite all its positive attributes, I am not quite convinced that it is the movie we need so much as the movie we want._

_The movie, in the beginning, takes a personal look at the separate childhood's of the two figures, drawing on scant source material and speculation. Professor Spock’s difficult upbringing was catalogued in his lectures and journal entries on the emergence of xenopolitics. The nuances, though, were quite devoid of substance in the film, most likely due to the sterile nature of his records. Kirk’s childhood was portrayed as quite ordinary, or as ordinary as a childhood with an often-absent mother and an abusive stepfather can get; the movie is vague on the abuse but heavy on the absence._

_Despite all its faults, the movie has been applauded for being quite progressive. The casting of Orion actress Navaar Izar for Gaila, the bartender from Framingham who would eventually become a famous defender of the Kirk legacy, was bold and quite perfect, especially since the tenth anniversary since the discovery of Orion approaches._

_Now, progress has been emphasized in cinema for decades. How do we push boundaries? How do we test the limits of our understanding? One way this movie did not was in the relationship between the two protagonists. As historical figures, we have a few primary source documents to draw on: a few letters sent by Kirk and a picture of them at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. The two coworkers were quite close. The fondness in Kirk’s writing and his expression in the photo are evident of that._

_But his reaction is not the real crux of the issue. Professor Spock elicits fondness from a man who grew from a child with a troubled past, whose adolescent psych evaluations indicated “a tendency for manipulation borne from his high intelligence and emotional trauma.” (The trauma is not explicitly stated, but it could have to do with Frank Huntington and the pain of a brother who left for Exo III.) And the photo at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum suggests something more than friendship, especially when Professor Spock’s body language suggests relaxation, comfort, and affection._

_And yet, almost at the turn of the century, we have the suppression of a queer relationship in popular media._ The Agents’ Code _emphasizes with failed subtlety a relationship between Gaila Orwell and Kirk instead of with Spock and Kirk, despite several refutations of a romantic rendering of their friendship. In an almost hilarious moment just before the climax, Spock tells Kirk, “You are my friend, and I am yours,” to which Kirk replies in uncharacteristically serious Bible-quoting, “No greater love hath man than to lay down his life for a friend.” The epic no-homo fail of the century._

 _Despite the writers’ efforts to eke this out as a strictly platonic relationship between two complex men, it is difficult to keep that gay under wraps, as they say, when history doesn’t lie and filmmakers try to._  

 _Taylor Jay is a columnist for_ The Atlanta Tribune's _online series:_ The Queer Report _._

—Jay, Taylor. “What the Movie _The Agents' Code_ Missed.” _The Atlanta Tribune_ , October 12, 2097. Web.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> balancing school, work, and this is tough. thanks for sticking with me.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tensions ramp up, and things aren't easier for jim.

_"I wish you would stop," Jim whispers. His blue eyes glitter with unshed tears as he tries to avoid Spock's piercing gaze._

_Spock shakes his head, stiff. "I do not know what you mean."_

_Jim cries, "Being so logical!"_

_He doesn't see it, but he can tell Spock is confused._

_Spock responds, "You must be more specific."_

_Jim crosses his arms. "You just do things! You avoid me! You tried to stop me from talking to that dude yesterday!"_

_He stares off into the rain, frustrated. Spock resists the urge to pull him in._

_"I do not know what this feeling is. However, my actions were justified-"_

_"But keep a dude from hitting on me?" He raises his voice, and the people beginning to stare from across the lamplit street don't deter him. All he can stare at are Spock's sharp-eyed stare and the way his bottom lip quivers just so._

_"You misunderstand-"_

_"Misunderstand what-"_

_"I love you! Fervently, my darling," he huffs out in a rush._

_Jim's gaze softens, and he pushes himself into the waiting ring of Spock's arms. "Oh, Spock."_

—Werner, Hailey. _Government Romance: A Fan Novel_. New York: Hachette Book Group. 2124. Print.

* * *

Nyota’s image is clear on the laptop. Her smile, subtle and small, still sets alight something warm in the room. The robin's egg blue wallpaper behind her melds graciously to the rusty brown of the booth she occupies. Spock can discern the worn logo of her UC Berkeley sweatshirt and the way her hair, long and silken, frames her face in a way that makes her relaxation and understated glee even more relieving. The chalk-soft murmur of a cafe glides just skims beneath her voice.

She laughs and sits back in her seat. “I’m currently the best linguist anyone has ever seen.”

Spock replies, simultaneously full of mirth and stoicism, “I am not surprised. You have always been extraordinarily gifted.”

“Stop it!” she giggles, snorting a little. “I’ve been job-hunting. Academia is good and all, but you and I both know I’m meant to be saving the world.”

He considers. “You have always been quite heroic.”

She sighs and sits forward, elbows on the table. Her eyes, round and half-lidded, gaze out the window. She gathers the sleeves of her sweatshirt into her fists, so youthful in the movement it tugs at Spock's chest. “I’m so curious, Spock, about what’s out there. What else is out there for us other than our books and your FBI job and my research position?”

Spock watches her, and he is suddenly aware in that peripheral way that people usually are, that his dreams and hers intersect at different points, points foreign from those when they first met.

“We are intelligent and resourceful, Nyota. We are also citizens of the world, and we go where we are most needed.”

Nyota pauses, taking a sip of her coffee. “I got a call from the FBI, Spock.”

“Was it a career opportunity?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. They want me to come and look at something for them,” she responds.

He tilts his head in thought. “Perhaps they are searching for consultants.”

She laughs, breathless, and stretches her arms above her head. “I don’t know. I’m just… I don’t know what to do.”

“You will do what you have always done.”

“And what is that?”

“What you feel is right.”

Nyota’s face is placid, like the cool surface of a lake, and she looks at him like he is a gift. “Thanks, Spock.”

Spock relaxes just slightly in his chair and adjusts his lamp. “If you do not decide to take the job, I understand. The FBI would not be accustomed to the particular sound of your laugh, and it would be a shame to hear that you singlehandedly demolished a unit.”

Nyota gapes, “You asshole! You know I can’t control it!”

She descends into giggling snorts, trying desperately to stop laughing but unable to. Spock looks at her, her olive nail polish, the way her skin radiates something more golden than delight.

* * *

The Enterprise and the sky are the same ashen grey today. The roof is left open, and it makes their papers supple with all the humidity. Minute droplets mingle with the powdered light, and just over the rim of the dome, Spock can make out the green spray of the canopy, sparse now in the early spring, off the lawn. His _sedum morganianum_ sits lush on his desk, casting a faint shadow across the organized spread of his work.

Jim rests hunched at his desk, dressed casually in an oversized sweater. He has a pair of glasses perched on his nose ("I'm incapacitated today, Spock," he had complained loudly as he walked in this morning. "Can't be bothered with contacts or standard attire.") and his cheeks dust just barely rosy pink with the chill. Posed like he is, body angled and curled away in the rolling desk chair, Spock can only just glimpse the crease of Jim's brow.

"Jim. Have you considered the Virginia case?"

Jim leans back in his chair and idly turns, clearly annoyed. "I'm not cleared for active field work yet, you know that."

Spock sees the tension in his abdomen and thinks about the bandages surely wrapped around him. "I do. I also know your input would be greatly appreciated."

He looks at him warily. "Why?"

Spock sighs. "I may work this case with a visiting agent from the EPA."

Jim stops spinning, his face oddly stricken. "Who?"

"I do not know yet. Pike has yet to inform me."

Jim rolls his eyes, hunching back over his stack of papers. "Whatever, man. My thoughts are that there's an alien compound in the water filtration brands that's targeting specific households, but you would know that if you read my case notes. There's some weird shit in there that I can't decipher."

Spock had read the case notes. "Your theory is nothing short of an unfounded and quite ridiculous claim."

Jim places his forehead against the desk. "Then why'd you ask for my opinion when you're just gonna do this to me?"

"I was hoping for a more discerned answer, but perhaps my hopes were miscalculated," he answers.

"Who calculates hope? Who does that?" Jim complains, gesturing wildly towards Spock. Before he can answer, he turns away. “God. You’re so annoying.”

Something like irk rises in the hollow of Spock’s throat. He glances down at his own stack of files, halfway done and still tall enough to promise a couple of long nights, and he sighs.

“You are-“

The front door swings open, and the man from three days ago, Jim’s doctor-friend, huffs and storms his way across the threshold straight to Jim’s desk. He wears a heavy coat over his scrubs, obviously fresh off a shift at the hospital. Jim doesn’t even look up to greet him, his jaw set.

He clears his throat.

Spock says, “May I help you?”  
The man sneers, “Yeah. Tell this idiot to take his damn meds.”

Jim writes resolutely on a set of forms. “Took them yesterday.”  
His face grows red, and Spock resists the urge to restrain the man. “It fuckin’ says ‘every eight hours’ on the damn package, you ingrate!”

Jim looks up, eyes blue and tired and just slightly pained. “Look, Bones.” He pushes his files aside. “I’m fine.”

“It's Doctor McCoy when I'm treatin' ya. Show me your bandage,” he says in disbelief.

Spock trains his eyes carefully on Jim’s, and watches as the stiff visage seems to simultaneously relax and clench as he stands up. He lifts his large sweater, just enough to expose the end of the wound low on his abdomen. Spock’s eyes widen when he sees the large red spot creeping towards the edge of the otherwise pristine wrapping.

“Damnit, Jim!” He rushes forward, immediately pressing his hands to Jim’s torso. Spock averts his eyes. "Four months since the damn incident, and it still bleeds like a fuckin'-"

"Doctor, if you feel that Jim is unfit for duty, I suggest contacting Director Pike."

"It really isn't that bad," Jim asserts.

McCoy grunts, gently pulling at the bandage. "What a heathen, this one. 'Isn't that bad,' my ass. Yer gonna get fuckin' sepsis at this rate. You keep findin' ways to open that thing right back up, damn you."

"To he fair, the first few times were not my fault. The town clinic gave me ointment that I'm allergic to, and-"

The wound, split along the stitches, seeps slowly. McCoy injects a local anesthetic and then an antiseptic from his pack and works a needle and thread into the damaged flesh, cautious especially where a bruise turns aubergine just across Jim's hip.

"I really can't keep patchin' ya back up, Jim," McCoy mutters. "Ya age me."

Jim smiles, little and wry, "Don't worry, Bones. The grey hairs give you a bit of charm. I'm kind of into it."

McCoy glances at Spock. "Can you believe this idiot? Nineteen and givin' me sass. Ridiculous."

Spock purses his lips. "I am inclined to agree." He observes Jim's wounds. "You are still healing. I will email Pike and inquire about your status."

"You just-" He pauses. Then he sighs. He shakes his head and tilts his chin up skyward, eyes towards the open shell of the dome. "Fine. Do it. I shouldn't have said I was incapacitated this morning. Fuck."

Spock grabs his phone and opens the email application. "You do realize that my decision has nothing to do with your words this morning, do you not?"

McCoy, peeved and trying actively not to brain himself with the medical tools in his bag, grumbles, "Jim ain't gonna give you a straight reason for wantin' to strain his delicate self."

Jim closes his eyes. "Not delicate."

To Spock's surprise, McCoy lets a half-smile escape as he begins tying off the sutures. "Oh yeah, darlin'. Mighty delicate. A billion allergies, a trillion sensitivities, poor eyesight, and a love for botherin' me in the middle o' the night'll definitely do it."

Jim doesn't reply. McCoy sighs and presses a hand to his shoulder, thumb stroking along his exposed collar bones and tracing a scar there. They exchange a look, and Spock's chest tightens with something like discomfort.

McCoy turns to Spock. "Ya know, in my professional opinion, I don't think Jim should be out in the field for at least another month and a half."

"I see. I will relay this to Director Pike."

Jim squares his jaw and doesn't look towards McCoy when he leaves, only grabs his hand before letting go abruptly to return to his stack of papers.

Jim's voice is quiet when he says, "I'll stay home. But the second something happens with the Virginia case, tell me. Okay?"

Spock nods and types out an email to Pike.

* * *

When Nyota does arrive at the Enterprise doorstep a day later, it is a surprise. She opens the door herself and, like a woman with an army, charges right up to Spock's desk.

"Mr. Spock," she says, tone even. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and the black of her pantsuit is pristine."

"Nyota," he replies. He stands up.

Jim, who furrows his brows at them from across the dome, creeps along the rounded wall. "Who are you?"

She turns on her heel toward him and smiles tightly. "Uhura. Hired by Director Pike to assist on 'the Virginia case.'"

Jim tugs at his NASA t shirt and forces a smile onto his face, moving to shake her hand. "Okay. Okay. Jim Kirk. From the EPA?"

Nyota's eyes sweep up and down his form, and Spock can see the way Jim has to hold himself stiff as a board to maintain a semblance of confidence. "No, my mentor recommended me to Pike, who wanted help decoding some evidence. Spock has had some things to say about you." She turns to Spock. "Anyway. I fly all the way from California, and all you give me is a 'Nyota?'"

Spock sighs, feigning burden, and holds out his arms. "I suppose a hug would be appropriate."

Her smile bands across her face like a rope of sunshine, and she gives him no warning before jumping straight into his waiting arms.

"Missed you," she says.

Over her shoulder, he peers at Jim from his periphery, who seems to both recoil physically and regret the action immediately as it pulls at his stitches.

* * *

 **From** : Jim

th virginia case

 **From** : Jim

jus giv me the file back

 **From** : Jim

i can hlp

 **From** : Spock

No. Pike ordered you to stay grounded until further notice. If you also recall, you are at risk for suspension.

 **From** : Jim

wtf y

 **From** : Spock

You disobeyed direct orders to stay in Leyden when on the Mudd case.

 **From** : Jim

leav me alone jesus

 **From** : Jim

i gt the job dun

 **From** : Jim

look i jus wnna c the file sumthin isnt right

 **From** : Spock

No.

 **From** : Jim

god

 **From** : Jim

Please.

 **From** : Jim

i evn spelld it out jus lemme c it

 **From** : Jim

spock r u ignorin me

* * *

Sitting in the Enterprise with Nyota feels all at once familiar and foreign. Her face is soft in the orange lamplight, and it sends flints of nostalgia flickering about between them. She scribbles on a map of Virginia, neat in red script and flips through a book and bites her lip in thought. He thinks back to their freshman year, so long ago now, when they first researched together just like this in the hopes of saving that distant colony Tarsus IV.

Jim, long gone now (though only at Nyota's stubborn insistence), had left but not without sending a peculiar, unreadable glance his way and leaving a pile of photographs from each of the crime scenes scattered all over the Enterprise floor.

So Spock and Nyota exist, suspended like planetary figures in the dark of the Enterprise, Pluto and Charon destined to orbit each other.

Nyota taps her pen against her chin, contemplative. "This case is so strange. Ten families from Quantico. Ten so far. Nothing in common, really. There's no distinguishable date pattern other than they're getting closer and closer together."

Spock reads over a hospital report of one of the patients. Male. Early forties. Dead within a week. Autopsy reveals a scarred liver, lesions in the digestive tract, and a brain exposed to temperatures higher than 104 degrees for too long.

She continues, "Symptoms are the same across all twenty seven victims, and they're written off as meningitis. Except there are no surface lesions."

Spock shakes his head. "A meningitis outbreak is possible."

"But is it plausible?"

"Perhaps not."

She sighs and reclines in her seat. She drags a hand down her face, tired. "I'm good at finding patterns. I'm good at analysis. But the only pattern I see here is Quantico."

Spock lets the quandary hang between them.

Nyota puts her pen down and declares, "Let's take a break. It's been a long night. Maybe resting our brains will help." Without waiting for him to respond, she changes the subject. "Tell me about Jim. He seemed strange."

"A woman informed me that he is known sometimes as 'Quirky Kirk.'"

"Oh my god, are you serious? Are we twelve?" she chuckles.

"Perhaps he is," he deadpans.

Nyota peers at him from beneath her lashes, and her mouth forms a curious line. "He was injured and working."

"Yes," Spock nods. "He disobeyed direct orders and paid a price for it."

Something like distaste casts like a dark dye in water over her, but she says nothing. She glances at Jim's desk, eyeing the nearly full bottle of prescription painkillers.

He eyes her, the slight tension in her shoulders, and shakes his head. "Perhaps it would be wise to work for a few hours more before retiring for the evening."

She nods. She heaves a sigh and picks up a scrap of paper. Jim's notes. "He thinks it's aliens? Somehow connected to the water supply?”

"Yes."

Nyota walks over to one of Jim's chaotic stacks of photographs and holds a few up to the light. The ones in her hand, from the death scene of what the Bureau thinks is Patient Zero, are written over with red permanent marker.

"Spock," she beckons. "Look at these."

Spock raises a brow and obeys. Jim had circled certain points of the photographs, strange shadows. They look almost like stains in the carpet or the walls, but some seem to hang in mid-air. Odd, but perhaps just tricks of the light.

Nyota flips the sheets over. Each smudge and stain are all numbered and catalogued, and, through some train of thought unrecorded on the small space of the photo paper, are translated into letter pairs.

_TM PR PQ XC YG NV MA AB ZA MH AE._

_PC TM SI AP CQ SY._

_LC QB EB._

On a separate sheet, Nyota traces over Jim's hasty handwriting with her finger.

_Playfair. Playfair. Playfair._

"What does that mean?" she wonders aloud.

Spock considers, “Letter pairs, a binary code, drawn from little more than photographic anomalies suggest nothing.”

Nyota counters, “It could be everything. Look at the way the smudges are mirrored in each crime scene. They all yield the same code. I’m not saying it’s aliens, or whatever Kirk thinks it is, but if this is a recurrence, then this could be big.”

She ventures over to Jim’s notes, left haphazardly on the floor.

"He also says that all the families work for a governmental entity," she observes, suddenly intrigued. She turns the page over. "And... Most of them have ties to Vulcan."

"A pattern," he surmises.

"More families are in danger. Give me your phone." She dials a number quick as lightning. "Director Pike, we need more hands in Leyden."

* * *

Pike dispatches two agents. Well, Spock thinks, one agent and a highly competent trainee, if he can even be called that.

Hikaru Sulu is a man of average height with jet black hair and a penchant for condensing all his benign joy into solemnity at a moment's notice. Upon entering The Enterprise, he nods at Nyota first and then at Jim, who is wrapped in a blanket at the far corner of the dome and surrounded by several piles of work of indeterminate origin, checks on the plants on Jim's and Spock's desks, and then drops a rubber-banded stack of envelopes straight into Spock's hands.

"These are all the EPA's documented incident reports from the past five years from the area. At the bottom is a record of RCRA large quantity, small quantity, very small quantity, and conditionally exempt hazardous waste generators. I looked into everything from lead to tetrachloroethylene to DDT. And there's information on TURA in there as well." He stands at parade rest, almost subconscious in his assertion of slow authority.

Nyota smiles, tight and professional. "Impressive."

Spock flips through a few of the reports. "I see many of these reports are by you."

Sulu nods. "Yes. I made some of these before I came here. I keep tabs on a lot of the New England polluters."

Jim shuffles over and reaches to put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, buddy."

Sulu's smile breaks across his face, and he eases, just like that, out of the stiff stance.

"Hey, Quirky," he teases. He catches a glimpse of Jim's _crassula ovata._ "Jesus, Jim. You need to give her more sunlight!"

Jim scoffs. "Okay, Mr. Plant Expert."

"I work for the EPA, Jim."

The other one, Pavel Chekov, stands with the lanky gumminess of someone very young. He still hasn't grown into the size of his head nor the length of his limbs, and words tumble out of his mouth with eagerness. Like a child, Spock thinks.

"Call me Pavel, sir. I do – uh, how do you say – consulting for the CIA and also sometimes for the FBI," he greets, rocking on the balls of his feet.

Jim blanches. "Oh my god, how old are you?"

Chekov beams and the curls on the top of his head seem comical. "Sixteen, sir."

"Fuckin' hell, he's sixteen!"

Sulu lightly smacks him across the shoulder. "You're nineteen, don't even pretend that's not basically the same thing."

"By definition, sixteen and nineteen are not the same," Jim snipes back. "And I'm twenty now."

Spock feels overwhelmingly irritated. He intervenes. "Jim. It is perhaps best that you return to your filing while I converse with Mr. Sulu and Mr. Chekov."

Jim glowers but obeys. Spock stares as he saunters away and fights to hide a frown at the way his hand twitches toward his injury. Prideful, he thinks. Unwilling to show his weakness even on mandated leave.

"Mr. Spock, I have uh something about some uh strange things in Quantico," Chekov says. "I do not know how to explain."

Nyota, intrigued, pulls Chekov aside and converses with him in Russian, and Sulu, left awkwardly in the middle of the Enterprise floor with Spock, flips through the case file.

"So.... What exactly are we looking at?"

"A slew of unexplained deaths in Quantico, Virginia. No known connections among the victims other than ties to either the Vulcan government or the United States government."

Spock can hear Jim's angry muttering. "If only you guys would listen, you'd know exactly what was up."

* * *

So it makes sense, then, that Quantico sends out a single distress call to the FBI, almost all details omitted, the next day followed by complete radio silence, and everyone, even Doctor McCoy who works under a broad sweep of FBI branches as "medical consultation and personnel," is called to report onsite.

Except Jim isn't, and Spock has to look at him, feeling strangely cold, and say, "Stay. We will return shortly."

* * *

The Strange Case of Doctor Leonard Horatio McCoy and James Tiberius Kirk

September 9, 2093

Shonda K. Davis

_Many historians have put forth several theories as to the disappearance of James T. Kirk. Some entertained the idea of a quiet life on a distant Earth colony, or a tragic (but unreported) death at the hands of Khan; it seems quite clear that even historians fall prey to the wiles of conspiracy theories._

_But none have considered the possibility of Dr. Leonard McCoy’s involvement._

_Records, however sparse, indicate that he and James Kirk were close. The few photographs salvaged from the recent McCoy estate sale are illuminating as to the possible nature of this relationship._

_One of particular note, dated April 3, 2018, ages Kirk at eighteen and McCoy at twenty five. Harvard’s Old Yard is lush behind them, still damp with the rain of new spring. Students walk behind them totally unaware of the future importance of the two figures before them. And Kirk, still quite young, stares up at the camera from their impromptu picnic blanket scattered with books and notes. McCoy, by now a resident at Harvard Medical, looks at Kirk with something unplaceable and strange in his eyes._

_A recent reexamination of the known life of Kirk by_ Time Magazine _reveals that they remained close at least until the point of his unusual disappearance._

_Now, it is easy to dismiss their relationship as something irrelevant to the mystery. As the story goes, it was Professor Spock and James Kirk who saved the world, etc. The doctor, who is sure to have treated both of them during his tenure serving the FBI, would not have been quite as instrumental._

_But consider the possibility of something other than friendship between McCoy and Kirk. It is not as farfetched as one may think, for it would be quite easy for Dr. McCoy, who until his death remained unmarried after his 2016 divorce, to hide away Kirk, keep him under wraps. The spotlight was never on him. It was always on Spock._

_This hypothesis is romantic and quite unfounded, but it is one proposal amongst hundreds of equally romantic and unfounded ones._

_It may be time to explore every option we have until we finally get the truth._

— Davis, Shonda K. “The Strange Case of Doctor Leonard Horatio McCoy and James Tiberius Kirk.” The Daily Beast, September 9, 2093. Web.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they make it to quantico, and, unsurprisingly, things are hectic.

_Hikaru: When Ben proposed to me-_

_Ben: [LAUGHING] Ah, this is-_

_Hikaru: It was cute! Anyway, when Ben proposed to me, we were probably around twenty two._

_Ben: Yeah, yeah. We were young._

_Hikaru: I had just finished an assignment in Virginia, and I did not look great at all. Just imagine all the cuts and the scrapes and the dirt. And he wanted to go out to dinner! With me! Looking like that!_

_Ben: In retrospect, I should have let him rest._

_Hikaru: Yeah, well, it was great anyway. We went out to this Indian place on Newbury, then he dragged me to the MFA after hours-_

_Ben: You said you wanted to go!_

_Hikaru: [SMILING] Even after five decades, this man still changed the story._

_Ben: [INAUDIBLE]_

_Hikaru: So he stops me in front of a Monet, you know, like the lily pads and all, and says something about me and botany and life and vibrance-_

_Interviewer: Do you remember exactly what he said?_

_Ben: I said, "I know we're young, but the opportunity to create something beautiful like Monet's flowers with you is the greatest treasure I could ever hope for, and your last assignment made me realize that I needed to seize the chance while I had it."_

_Hikaru: [TAKING BEN'S HAND] And he got down on one knee, and some of my coworkers came out with bouquets of peonies and hydrangeas._

_Interviewer: I have a photo here-_

_Ben: Oh god._

_Interviewer: Can you name who is in this photo?_

_Hikaru: Yeah, yeah. That's Pavel, next to me. And Spock, oh wow, Spock was so serious. And Uhura is next to him with Scotty._

_Ben: Yeah, they hadn't been friends for long, but it was nice of them to come._

_Interviewer: Who is that on the end?_

_Hikaru: That was Jim._

_Interviewer: Jim Kirk?_

_Hikaru: Yeah._

_Ben: He got us into the MFA, actually._

_Hikaru: [QUIETLY] Yeah, he was quite the charmer._

—Benjamin Kwon and Hikaru Sulu. _Asian American Retrospective: 2020 Forward_. By Yunhwa Koo. _KoreAm_ , June 23, 2075.

* * *

 

Virginia, this time of year, feels balmy and cool. The sky, thinly overcast as it was, permits enough sunlight to be bright outside but not so much as to be oppressive. It is close to four, so the birds that would have sung so fervently in the morning and perhaps some in the afternoon now diminish their voices to just a few. The foliage buds green and dewy with the footprint of a gone shower, but something in the air crackles electric, like lightning skirting beneath the threshold of their perception.

The Academy is their makeshift base of operations. Usually buzzing with the activity of students, it is occupied today by actual agents from various locations around New England. They pack into a large auditorium, shoulder to shoulder, and try their best to hear Komack — a stern man of even higher rank than Pike — speak over the tinny sound system and the shuffling of anxious adults.

"Settle down, agents. We don't have much time, so I'll only explain this to you once," he begins. "We're working with the local PD on this, but I'm afraid they won't be of much help to us, seeing as they know nothing. What we have been able to gather is that there have been a suspicious chain of deaths of those related to officials that operate with the Vulcans. And yesterday, Quantico PD sent out a distress call."

Uhura furrows her brows and whispers, "What kind of distress call?"

Chekov explains in a whisper-yell, "It is like uh direct line to CIA or FBI, depending on the need. They probably maybe sent out phone call or very urgent email to one agency or another."

Komack, clearly annoyed at all the talking, continues, "They said they needed our help. So we are here. We are dispatching all of you to gather evidence, anything that you can find that will help shed some light on this."

Then Sarek appears at the mic from behind the stage curtain, flanked by T'Pau and two other Vulcans. They all don Vulcan robes, and even from Spock's position in the large auditorium, he can see they have layered to shield against the spring chill.

"Cadets, I am the Vulcan Ambassador to Earth. With me are other prominent Vulcan officials. Many others are currently housed in the administrative building. As we cannot leave Earth-"

A woman raises her hand. "Why can't you leave?"

"Jesus," Komack huffs. "You all went through training, you all know not to speak when your superior is speaking."

Sarek shakes his head. "It is quite all right. We cannot leave because it was we who sent out the distress signal. Our shuttle crafts are currently in dysfunction, and all attempts to obtain one suited for the journey back to Vulcan have been thus far futile. Additionally, local meteorologists have foreseen the appearance of an unexplainable lightning storm. We are effectively trapped on Earth for reasons we cannot yet comprehend."

Komack sighs. "Yeah. All our other long-distance shuttles are on their way to Exo, damnit. The ships are also a no-go. We suspect whoever we're dealing with has something to do with that."

Sulu purses his lips and whispers, "We have nothing to go on. This is insane. What are even supposed to do?"

Pike, suddenly materializing behind them, whispers, "You're a professional, aren't you, agent? If you'd read the brief, you'd be a little less clueless."

Spock pulls up his email on his phone.

**From** : Director Christopher Pike <cpike@leo.gov>

**To** : Spock <spock@leo.gov>

**Subject** : FIELD ASSIGNMENT

 

> FIELD ASSIGNMENT APRIL 2020
> 
> GROUP: 14 (ENTERPRISE)
> 
> LEAD: PIKE
> 
> SECOND: SPOCK
> 
> PRIMARY MEMBERS: CHEKOV P, MCCOY L, SULU H, UHURA N
> 
> AUXILIARY MEMBERS: BERNAL H, CHEUNG Y, HAVERFORD F, MORRIS J, SHIM T, SMITH B
> 
> LOCATION: EAST QUANTICO (see attachment for details)
> 
> Attached: LocationInfo14.pdf, EvidentiaryDoc.docx, Primary14.pdf, Aux14.pdf

Sulu snorts when he sees Pike refer to them even here as the Enterprise. "Even when Jim isn't here, he still gets us."

He purses his lips. "He does, indeed."

* * *

When they arrive at their station — "station" being an overstatement for their set up in an empty convenience store at the edge of town — McCoy is already there.

Spock can see the print of a sweat stain down his back, and whoever he is hunched over is spread out on the check counter with his back against the lottery display, long legs practically sliding off the edge. A bag of capped syringes and solutions spills over on the adjacent counter, mildly concerning; the rotating postcard display being used as a makeshift IV pole is, however, very concerning. The clouds that now obscure the sun and the flickering bulbs pool McCoy in a goldenrod film, casting the strain of his shoulders and the vigor of his movements in stark relief. He mumbles something about the swelling, but the rest goes unheard over the thunder and wind outside.

"Agent, what in God's name are you doing?" Pike calls, gingerly picking his way over scattered chip bags and lotto tickets.

McCoy shakes his head and grunts without looking up, "I have a patient, Director, and I am working to stabilize his condition."

Chekov, apparently without fear, peeks over McCoy's shoulder. His eyes widen. "Oh! Jim? Is he okay?"

The rest of their team gathers around, curiously trying to sneak a glimpse of his surely swollen face around the doctor's broad form. Pike bristles.

"Step away, agents!" he barks. "You, too, McCoy. I could have you suspended for this."

McCoy turns around the face them, and Spock is immediately struck with the visage of a very tired, very frustrated man. His t shirt is wrinkled in several places with several stains of probably single origin (i.e. Jim). He keeps a hand on Jim's wrist, half to monitor his pulse and half to stake a protective barrier.

"With all due respect, sir, my patient was in no condition to be left alone. When I was called down here, my patient here had been suffering — is still suffering — from an injury dealt to him on his last mission. As there were no doctors available to treat him properly in Leyden, I had no choice but to bring him along as his physician. His current condition was caused by anaphylaxis, which could have come from over four dozen sources, given his long list of severe allergies-"

Jim wheezes alarmingly before sitting straight upright. Before Spock can pull her back, Uhura rushes forward, attempting to usher him down, but he bats her hand away as gently as he can, considering his hands have swollen to a tremendous and definitely painful size. McCoy curses and pumps another round of a steroidal solution through one of the intravenous lines in Jim's wrist.

"Pike," he rasps. "t-tell me what's going on."

Sulu stammers before anyone else can, "Kirk, w-w-what the fuck."

A blue-tinged rash flares across Jim's collarbones. For a moment, Spock battens down irrational memories of a classmate afflicted with Mu'Plakur Syndrome, and the way she, for many months before anyone could ascertain her condition, walked through the halls of their school with an indigo spray of bumps across her face, neck, and shoulders. He tries not to remember her as she is today, a bright woman discouraged by her many scars and the neurological toll of the condition on her mental faculties; she wished to be a scientist.

McCoy, clearly irritated, shoves him back down against the counter. "Goddamnit, ya little brat, sit still! The epinephrine is makin' ya jittery."

Pike runs his hands over his face in exasperation. "I can't tell you shit, son. You're not on this assignment, and you won't be of much help, anyhow."

Spock agrees, "Yes. Your energy will be best spent in recovery. Director, I could call the emergency response team to transport Jim to a treatment facility."

"No!" Jim growls. He sits back up and swings his leg over the front of the counter to face them and takes a cursory look at their team, and Spock examines the shaking, twitching tremble of his face and sees nothing less than something ready to slip away. "Fuck, I knew something wasn't right. Where are the Vulcans?"

Bernal, an auxiliary agent, answers, "The admin building."

Jim buries his head in his hands and curses.

"Well, shit. Shit!"

Uhura purses her lips and pulls a stack of photographs from her pack.

"Kirk, you have to tell us what you know before we can tell you much else. You wrote all over these, now tell us what they mean."

As best as he can, Jim flips through the photos, fumbling a bit with the sheer size of his still-ballooning hands and the tangle of the IV lines. A sudden clap of thunder surges across the sky, and the lights in the store flicker out.

Pike rolls his eyes. "Damn lightning storm. Can't get nothing done when it hits."

Jim drops all the photos. "Lightning storm?"

Spock answers, slowly, "Yes. Virginia is experiencing a lightning storm currently, expected to last approximately four more days."

"Aw shit. Fuck!" Jim pulls out his cell phone. "Okay, so let's start with the photos. Each little smudge, you see, is a letter of a language that has a phonetic equivalent in English. It's outwardly similar to Vulcan, and I figured that was the key. I wrote my notes in code, but I can't believe you guys didn't figure it out. I wrote the cipher below it. See?"

Uhura's eyes widen. "You decoded another language?"

"Yeah, it wasn't hard once I found the root."

He points to the small script.

_TM PR PQ XC YG NV MA AB ZA MH AE._

_PC TM SI AP CQ SY._

_LC QB EB._

"I even wrote that I used the Playfair Cipher," Jim sighs. "And you guys fuckin' love ripping on me because I'm 'stupid.' Couldn't even bother looking it up. And fuckin' hell this lightning storm..."

Chekov pulls out a pen and notepad. "If you use that cipher, you get a... very peculiar message."

"Spit it out, agent," Pike barks.

"It says, 'Romulus will be avenged. Nero the last. Narada.'"

Spock watches Jim tense, and the nervous bunch of his frame seems to jolt when another crash of thunder follows the white slash of lightning outside. Peripherally, he notes that his allergy seems to be subsiding.

"Chris," he begins, "you have to listen to me. Romulus is another civilization, I swear it. And-and-and someone named Nero is here because I guess Vulcan did something to piss them off, and this lightning storm is fuckin' the same one — same fuckin' metrics — as the one that happened the day I was born-"

"Vulcan has not communicated with Romulus in quite some time," Spock interrupts. "It is a distant civilization, and we may have a common ancestor. As I also understand, Earth has yet to make first contact."

"Are you saying that this... Nero, a Romulan, from Romulus, a planet we don't technically know about but Vulcan does, took down the Kelvin?" Chris bites out. "That's fuckin' rich."

Jim groans, batting away McCoy again. "It's in the evidence! Chris! Look at it! I have every calculation recorded in my notebooks, down to the seventh decimal. I got this right. You can't just walk into this blind. You gotta trust-"

"Jim-"

"Chris! You wrote your dissertation on the Kelvin. You know that these conditions match exactly. There hasn't been a lightning storm like that before or after until today," Jim asserts. His face, less pale now, is slightly flushed at the apples of his cheeks with the exertion. His hands are more dextrous without the inflammation, and they clench nervously at his thighs.

"Okay," Pike sighs. A shadow falls over his face as he repeats, "Okay."

The lightning flashes in long lines across the clouds, curving towards the distant foggy plumes seizing the mountains.

The area directly surrounding the Academy's grounds, however, should be overtaken with the figures of active agents, escorting one Vulcan here, interviewing another there. Instead, it seems as though a frosted film has congealed over the distant buildings, pressing cold the visage of an ordinarily vibrant campus. Even with his hearing, Spock hears only the roll of thunder, a gust of wind, and Jim's heaving breath. When he looks at him, past the hard lines of McCoy's breadth, Spock sees that adrenaline has wicked the blue from his eyes.

"What do we do?" Chekov whispers.

Uhura walks to the large window pane and peers up at the cinereous sky. Her arms are held at her sides.

Like this, Spock thinks, her form looks infinitely valorous, straight-backed in the rumbling face of the unknown expanse of lightning and thunder beyond their meager fortress.

"We have to go in," she states.

Spock slowly steps forward to stand next to her. “We have little evidence. Going forward would be reckless.”

“What other choice do we have?” she asks, quiet. “Your parents are out there, Spock, and many other Vulcan officials. The worst that could happen is we get there and it turns out everything is fine.”

Pike clears his throat. “Uhura is right. Communications from other units have stopped. Something is wrong. We’re taking three SUVs, standard formation.”

* * *

Sitting in the front passenger seat of the vehicle, Spock can see behind him through the rear view mirror. Uhura, sitting behind the driver, looks at him before staring out the window and smiles, firm like when they first met, ages ago at Berkeley.

Next to her, in the middle seat, is Leonard McCoy, whose eyes are not directed at the mirror but next to him, at Jim. Something strange flits nervously through his chest, looking at the two of them, especially when the doctor goes out of his way to brush the hair off of Jim’s forehead, his palm lingering to monitor his temperature. And Jim’s eyes, swinging cerulean to aquamarine with the ebb and flow of lightning flashes and shadows, stare at Spock’s, wavering only slightly to trace the stock-still silhouette of Sulu’s driving form.

Spock would love to look away; it would be prudent to do so, but it is difficult when the lamps outside illuminate all of Jim’s new bruises — from his altercation with Bernal, who vehemently resisted letting Jim join them on their mission — and they bloom indigo like ink splashes across the expanse of his cheek. One extends to his jaw, under the bridge-like white scar stretching from the cut of his chin almost to his right ear. And he remembers the harpy, Celeano, and the way she traced her talons along it.

Jim whispers something to McCoy, and points outside to the angry sky. Spock looks out too, and it looks wrong. They are fast approaching the outer bounds of campus. The sky seems to play the same flashes of lightning over and over just beyond the hill, clearly demarcated by what looks like a line in the sky. The buildings are eerily still from their position.

Pike radios in from the SUV just behind theirs, “Are you guys seeing this?”

“Yeah,” Jim responds after wrestling the walkie talkie away from McCoy. “Looks like a projected weather loop.”

Pike scoffs, and it sounds like a grating growl over the static. “Figures. ‘Projected weather loop.’ Of course.”

Jim sits forward in his seat and opens the sun roof. “We’re crossing the lines right… now.”

Every building, so placid before, is immediately engulfed in flames.

* * *

_The False Narrative of Nero_

_June 14, 2030_

_John Jacobs_

_It’s been more than 10 years since Nero set foot on Earth, and it's no secret that our government is taking all the credit for defeating him._

_We all remember the way the nation mourned the loss of hundreds of FBI trainees, and the way that we all worked to rebuild Quantico after the attack. We all remember Senator Warren's stirring call for interstellar unity in this time of great tragedy._

_We all conveniently forget, though, the cause of this great breach in global security._

_Let us trace the history of interstellar relations back to the very beginning._

_First Contact with Vulcan occurred in 1967, when Vulcan reached out to us, and we, the meek Terrans, started to forge relations with them. As it turned out, they knew far more about us than we knew about them; that didn't stop things from progressing, though. They have an embassy on Earth, and we have an embassy on Vulcan. And we even have record of a Vulcan-human marriage with a child._

_Now we know, though, that Vulcan knew about the Romulans long before we did. We know now that Vulcan could have stopped it; they achieved warp before we did, developed high tech cannons before we did, knew about other civilizations before we did. Think about how many people died when Nero attacked Quantico._

_The liberal government would have us believe that we are to be friends with the Vulcans, when we should really be focusing on keeping Earth safe. Earth is first. Earth will always be first. And Nero is the prime example of why we should be Earth first._

_The solidarity between Earth and Vulcan after the Nero incident is a false narrative. It's fake. We're done._

— Jacobson, John. "The False Narrative of Nero.” _The Drudge Report_ , June 14, 2030. Web.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so busy with school, guys. I promise I'll finish this story; it'll just take a while.


End file.
